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GIFT  OF 


MUSICAL   SKETCHES 


BACH 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


BY 

ELISE    POLKO 


Translated  from  the  Fifteenth  Oervnan  Edition 


j^tto  llork 

STURGIS  &  WALTON 

COMPANY 

1909 

All  rights  reserved 


Copyright  1909 
By  STURGIS  &  WALTON  COMPANY 


Set  up  and  electrotyped.    Published  November,  1909 


G:(pi  <^  U\   UuiMu    HupuoM 


THK  MASON-HENRY  press 
Syracuse  and  New  York 


*'0  Music!  Thou  who  bringest  the  receding  waves 
of  eternity  nearer  to  the  weary  heart  of  man  as  he 
stands  upon  the  shore  and  longs  to  cross  over!  Art  thou 
the  evening  breeze  of  this  life,  or  the  morning  air  of  the 
future  onet" 

Jean  Paul. 


;)t> 


2ii27 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

' '  A  Mighty  Fortress  is  our  God  '  * 3 

Iphigenia   in   Aulis 24 

ViOLETTA      41 

Midsummer  Night  's  Dream 55 

Stabat  Mater  Dolorosa 63 

The  Master  *s  Grave 72 

The  Cat's  Fugue 82 

Snowdrops  90 

The  Playmates  98 

A   Meeting    107 

The  Convent  of  Saint  Lucia 123 

Maria    133 

The  Angel  's  Voice 141 

An  Amati    159 

Fallen  Stars  181 

A  First  Love 187 

EuE  Chabannais,  No.  6 204 

A  Melody    214 

Domenico  Cimaeosa    232 

A   Leonora    254 

Little  Jean  Baptiste 269 

vii 


vffl  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

A  Forgotten  One 296 

An  Old  Piano    311 

A  First  Appearance    317 

A  Double  Star  in  the  Artistic  Firmament  ....  322 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


Bach    Frontispiece 

facing  page 

Gluck    32 

Mozart    46 

Mendelssohn    56 

Schubert    80 

Paganini    102 

Gretry    110 

Catalani    130 

Malibran     138 

Handel    150 

Haydn    190 

BoiLDiEu    226 

CiMAROSA    238 

Schroder-Devrieint    256 

LuLLY    288 

Schumann   336 


MUSICAL   SKETCHES 


A  Mighty  Fortress  is  Our  God 

**The  great  artist,  when,  like  Moses,  he  stands  upon 
the  mount  and  receives  the  eternal  laws  of  art,  must  at 
once  forget  his  inner  life,  with  its  joys  and  sorrows, 
and,  ascending  to  heaven,  leave  the  petty  cares  of  earth 
and  disappear  into  the  void  of  space." — Jean  Paul. 

AN  autumn  evening,  foreshadowing  winter, 
followed  a  cool,  gloomy  October  day ;  misty 
forms  hurried  over  the  fields;  an  icy  wind  arose 
and  ruthlessly  tore  off  the  beautiful  variegated 
leaves,  that  clung  with  languid  strength  upon 
their  beloved  trees,  and  scattered  them  under  the 
feet  of  the  wayfarers.  An  oppressive  anxiety, 
or  a  dull  sadness,  hung  over  all  nature;— it  was 
as  though  the  voice  of  winter  sounded  from  afar, 
and,  whispering  maliciously,  suggested  dreary 
days  to  come— long,  dark  nights,  frost-pictures, 
and  snowflakes.  In  the  town,  however,  which 
lay  coiled  together  in  the  midst  of  a  large  plain, 
it  looked  more  cheerful:  all  the  inhabitants,  as 
though  in  mockery  of  the  autumn,  had  retired 
into  their  warm  houses  and  cottages;  a  friendly 
light— that  sign  of  true  comfort— poured  forth 
from  all  the  windows.     It  was  about  the  year 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


1732,  and  the  city  of  which  I  speak  was  called 
Leipzig.  It  was  surrounded  by  deep  moats,  high 
walls,  and  stately  linden-trees,  and  looked  defiant 
and  well  protected.  The  houses  were  mostly 
narrow  and  high,  with  odd,  pointed  balconies; 
here  and  there  one  could  see  a  little  tower  upon 
the  roofs;  but  few  church-steeples  were  visible. 
A  brilliant  light  shone  from  the  organist's  dwell- 
ing: it  was  attached  to  the  venerable  St.  Thomas' 
school,  and  was  situated  not  far  from  the  state- 
liest church  in  Leipzig.  The  sound  of  many 
merry  voices  was  distinctly  audible,  for  a  very 
united  family  was  assembled  within. 

At  the  heavy  oaken  table,  that  stood  in  the 
centre  of  a  room  which  was  adorned  with  large, 
dark  cupboards  and  strangely  shaped  chairs, 
there  sat  a  man,  attired  in  a  plain  suit  of  black, 
with  a  flowing  but  somewhat  dishevelled  wig. 
His  face  was  round  and  blooming;  a  serious 
mildness  played  about  the  corners  of  a  firm 
mouth;  his  brow  was  wondrously  beautiful  and 
transparent,  and  the  glance  of  his  fiery  black 
eyes  possessed  an  indescribable  power,  a  might 
from  whose  influence  it  was  difficult  to  escape. 
One  was  forced  to  gaze  ever  and  again  into  those 
magical  eyes;  it  seemed  as  if  beautiful  beings, 
not  belonging  to  this  earth,  were  mirrored  there, 

-  4  = 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


and  as  if  they  compelled  one  to  east  aside  all 
worldliness  and  become  better. 

This  man  of  whom  we  speak  was  John  Sebas- 
tian Bach,  well  known  throughout  the  city  as  a 
great  organist.  The  good  people  said  of  him, 
moreover,  that  he  was  a  strange  fellow,  not  easily 
managed;  they  often  shook  their  wise  heads 
thoughtfully  at  his  remarkably  intricate  figures 
and  unintelligible  fantasies  upon  the  organ. 
Still  all  sat  entranced  when  he  played;  one 
thrill  after  another  flew  through  the  listener's 
soul  when  his  powerful  tones  arose  and  swept 
along  the  aisles  of  the  church,  seeming  as  though 
they  would  rend  its  walls  asunder,  and  bury  the 
petty  mass  of  trembling  beings  beneath  its  fall- 
ing ruins. 

The  organist's  wife  sat  at  his  right  hand— a 
vigorous  woman  with  regular  features  and  saint- 
like eyes;  a  snow-white  cap  was  upon  her  head 
and  a  dazzling  neck-kerchief  was  crossed  upon 
her  bosom.  She  held  her  youngest  son  Christo- 
pher, a  hardy  child,  about  three  months  old, 
upon  her  knee.  Several  other  healthy-looking 
boys  were  lying  about,  near  their  mother's  feet, 
eating  roasted  apples  and  playing  with  their 
baby  brother.  Bach's  eldest  son,  tall  and  hand- 
some—like in  appearance  to  his  father— stood 
near  the  immense  stove  made  of  Dutch  tiles,  and 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


gazed  thoughtfully  upon  the  noisy  group  of 
younger  brothers.  To  the  left  of  the  organist,  a 
slender,  well-dressed  young  man  was  seated,  with 
thick  black  hair,  whose  mild,  amiable,  dark  face 
resembled  that  of  the  head  of  the  family.  It 
was  Bach's  second  son,  Philip  Emanuel,  there  on 
a  visit;  he  had  come  from  Frankfort  on  the 
Oder,  a  long  and  wearisome  journey,  in  order  to 
surprise  his  dear  ones.  He  had  just  been  telling 
his  father  about  the  new  musical  Academy  which 
he  had  established  at  Frankfort,  and  which  he 
directed  successfully.  He  also  spoke  of  the 
industry  and  talent  of  his  pupils;  and  now  he 
drew  a  few  sheets  of  music,  timidly,  from  his 
pocket.  Blushing,  he  pushed  them  towards  the 
organist,  saying:  '* Dearly  beloved  father,  look 
at  this ;  tell  me  if  it  be  good ! ' '  It  was  a  fine 
sonata,  which  Bach  examined  with  eyes  moist 
with  joy;  then  he  put  the  roll  away,  and  said, 
pleasantly :  "  In  time  something  will  be  made  of 
you,  my  boy;  proceed  with  God's  help!  Friede- 
mann  improves  bravely;  he  plays  quite  well; 
perhaps  I  may  live  to  have  much  joy  in  you 
both!"  The  two  eldest  sons  listened,  smiling 
and  rejoicing  at  their  father's  speech,  and 
pressed  his  hands  gratefully. 

Suddenly  the  trampling  of  a  horse  was  heard, 
and  immediately  afterwards  there  came  a  violent 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


knocking  at  the  house  door.  The  two  eldest  sons, 
alarmed,  rushed  from  the  room;  the  children 
became  hushed,  the  mother  grew  pale.  Sebastian 
Bach  alone  looked  quiet  and  tranquil,  and  said: 
''Why  feel  fear?  None  of  us  have  a  bad  con- 
science ;  so  then  let  come  what  may ! ' ' 

After  a  few  minutes  a  postilion  appeared, 
exhausted  and  bespattered  with  mud;  he  came 
direct  from  the  Electoral  residence  of  Dresden 
to  speak  with  the  organist  Sebastian  Bach,  and 
handed  him  a  note  written  by  the  powerful 
minister,  the  much-feared  Count  Briihl.  The 
organist  drew  the  large  oil  lamp  nearer  to  him, 
shaded  his  eyes  with  his  hand,  and  read ;  Philip 
Emanuel  politely  offered  the  man  a  chair. 

*'My  Dear  Bach: 

''Our  most  gracious  Elector  and  master,  Au- 
gustus of  Saxony  and  Poland,  wishes  to  have  the 
renowned  and  well-known  organist,  Sebastian 
Bach,  perform  for  him.  You  are  to  play  on  Sun- 
day, the  24th  of  October,  at  the  church  in 
Dresden.  Two  days  after  the  receipt  of  this 
letter,  one  of  the  royal  carriages  will  be  in 
Leipzig  to  bring  you  to  the  palace,  where  we  all 
await  you  with  the  greatest  anxiety.  Prepare 
yourself  worthily  for  this  great  honour,  my  dear 
Bach. 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


''By  order  of  my  most  gracious  master  I 
greet  you. 

''Signed:  Count  Bruhl.'' 

Bach  stood  thoughtful  for  a  long  time :  derision 
and  displeasure  struggled  upon  his  countenance ; 
his  eyes  turned  from  one  face  to  another. 
Friedemann  and  Philip  remained  modestly 
silent. 

"Courier,"  at  last  said  Bach,  slowly  but 
firmly,  "tell  the  minister,  that  I,  Sebastian  Bach, 
organist  of  the  St.  Thomas'  school  of  Leipzig, 
shall  comply  with  my  prince's  orders,  and  will 
go  to  Dresden." 

"I  must  venture  to  ask  for  a  written  docu- 
ment ! ' '  said  the  courier. 

"Man,"  thundered  Sebastian  Bach,  drawing 
himself  up  to  his  full  height,  "what  do  you  dare 
to  demand  ?  Did  you  not  understand  me  ?  Have 
not  I— Sebastian  Bach— but  now  given  you  my 
word  1  Do  you  take  me  for  one  of  those  faithless 
vassals  that  thrive  but  in  the  air  of  courts,  and 
who  are  more  bound  by  a  miserable  scrap  of 
paper  than  by  a  promise  made  in  the  presence 
of  God?" 

"Dearest  father!"  said  entreatingly  Philip 
Emanuel. 

"Silence,  boy!  you  do  not  understand  such 

=  8  =■ 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


things, ' '  hastily  exclaimed  the  father ;  and  turn- 
ing towards  the  courier,  he  said,  more  quietly: 
^'You  are  now  dismissed.  Tell  all  to  the  Count; 
I  care  not ! ' ' 

The  messenger,  pale  with  fright,  had  retreated 
a  few  steps.  Bach  seized  him  by  the  collar,  drew 
him  towards  him  and  said,  pleasantly:  **Well, 
this  will  be  a  wholesome  lesson  for  you,  is  it  not 
so  ?  Remember  it ;  not  only  here,  but  in  the 
palace !  And  now  enough !  I  shall  be  very  glad 
if  you  will  remain  to  supper  and  take  a  glass  of 
beer.''  The  courier  took  a  constrained  and 
hurried  departure,  and  Bach  gayly  reseated 
himself. 

Then  his  family  pressed  around  him  anxiously, 
and  his  wife,  Gertrude,  exclaimed:  ''Ah,  my 
Sebastian,  you  will  go  out  into  the  wide  world- 
far  away  to  Dresden,  in  the  midst  of  the  great 
magnificence  and  splendour  of  the  sinful  city  !— 
Ah,  and  the  long,  long,  weary  journey !  No,  my 
husband,  you  will  not  grieve  your  wife  and  chil- 
dren by  leaving  them!"  Then  she  burst  into 
bitter  tears,  and  threw  her  arms  with  many  sobs 
about  her  husband's  neck.  The  children,  who 
saw  their  mother  weep,  commenced  to  lament 
and  clung  about  their  father;  the  two  sons 
loudly  and  eagerly  discussed  the  Count's  note: 
there  was  much  noise  in  the  little  room. 

=  9  = 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


At  length  the  full,  strong  voice  of  the  father 
conquered  the  uproar:  ''Wife,  take  these  wild 
boys  into  the  nursery;  only  Friedemann  and 
Emanuel  shall  remain  here!''  Then,  with  a 
powerful  effort,  he  shook  off  the  screaming  chil- 
dren, and  the  mother  took  the  little  ones  to  their 
old  nurse. 

The  organist  paced  up  and  down  the  room 
with  long  steps;  his  faithful  wife  returned,  and 
with  moist  eyes  resumed  her  seat  at  the  table.— 
*'You  must  not  trouble  yourself  thus  about  the 
long  journey,  Gertrude,"  he  said  to  her,  mildly, 
"for  in  a  fortnight  I  shall  have  returned  to  my 
old  nest,  if  God  does  not  ordain  otherwise;  be- 
sides, I  have  determined  to  take  these  two"— he 
pointed  to  Friedemann  and  Emanuel— ''with 
me  to  the  palace;  they  shall  see  the  gay  world 
for  once,  and  above  all  shall  take  good  care  of 
their  father."— The  sons  thanked  him  with 
sparkling  eyes.— "Yes,  children,"  he  continued, 
"we  will  so  strike  the  hearts  of  the  worldlings 
with  the  glorious,  pure  voice  of  God"  (so  he 
often  called  his  beloved  organ)  "that  they  will 
start  back,  and  anxiously  stretch  forth  their 
hands,  praying  lowly  and  secretly:  Pater, 
peccavi!  And  master  Hasse  shall  acknowledge 
that  there  are  sounds  more  sublime  and  more 
divine  than  the  sweet,  voluptuous  melodies  of 

=  10 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


beautiful  Italy ! ' '  His  face  wore  a  transfigured 
look  as  he  spoke  these  words,  and  his  family 
gazed  upon  him  with  unbounded  reverence. 

Then  he  said,  cheerfully:  "Now,  mother,  let 
the  screamers  in  again,  and  bring  us  the  soup ! ' ' 
The  table  was  set;  a  large  stone  jug,  full  of 
foaming  beer,  stood  before  the  father's  plate, 
and  an  immense  loaf  of  bread  lay  beside  it. 
Father  Bach,  after  saying  a  short  blessing, 
helped  each  one,  with  loving  care,  to  his  share  of 
food  and  drink,  commencing  with  the  eldest; 
mother  Gertrude  served  the  smoking  soup,  and 
they  all  ate,  talked,  and  laughed. 


On  the  following  day,  the  organist  betook  him- 
self to  the  rector's  house,  in  order  to  receive 
permission  to  undertake  the  important  journey. 
It  was  disagreeable  for  him  to  do  this,  for  he 
avoided,  as  much  as  possible,  all  intercourse  with 
him. 

The  rector  and  the  organist  were  not  friends. 
The  first  complained  bitterly  of  his  inferior's 
rough  behaviour  and  refractory  disposition ;  and 
Bach  used  often  to  scold  angrily  at  the  rec- 
tor, for  being  a  God-forsaken,  dried-up  pedant. 
There  was  not  a  single  fresh  branch  on  this 
rector  tree,  still  less  a  tiny  green  leaf ;  the  whole 
man  was  wintry  without  and  within.  His  soul 
—  11 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


was  as  withered  and  as  shrivelled  as  was  his 
body;  it  was  ruined  and  buried  beneath  the 
thick  dust  of  mouldering  book-learning.  No 
bright  flower  delighted  him;  he  would  count  its 
stamina,  examine  its  calyx,  and  then  cast  it 
away;  he  remarked  merry  little  birds  and  ani- 
mals but  to  experiment  upon  them;— to  poison 
them  was  his  greatest  amusement.  He  was 
indifferent  to  all  mankind;  he  did  not  love  a 
soul.  He  called  the  organ-playing  of  the  per- 
verse Bach,  ''devilish;"  he  withdrew  from  its 
influence,  and  never  attended  morning  service; 
yes,  he  had  even  spread  the  report,  that  the  devil 
in  person  had  pledged  himself  to  blow  the  bel- 
lows for  Bach  when  he  practised.  Whenever  he 
could,  he  placed  some  obstacle  in  the  organist's 
way,  and  rejoiced  in  a  truly  impish  manner  at 
his  frequent  bursts  of  anger.  He  would  gladly 
have  dismissed  him,  but  it  required  a  very  differ- 
ent strength  from  his  to  make  so  great  a  rock 
totter;  so  he  stood  alone  with  his  hatred;  for 
teachers  and  pupils  alike  gazed  with  silent  love 
and  admiration  upon  the  mighty  ruler  of  the 
swelling  organ. 

John  Sebastian  Bach  excitedly  entered  the 
study  of  the  rector,  for  he  had  just  had  a  choir 
repetition  with  his  pupils,  and  had  become  some- 
what impatient;  his  wig,  as  usual  on  such  occa- 

=  12 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


sions,  was  all  awry;  the  rector  raised  himself 
high  in  his  leathern  easy-chair,  stared  with  his 
little  grey  eyes  upon  his  visitor,  and  gravely 
said:  ''Well,  what  annoyance  brings  the  organ- 
ist here  T' 

'*No  annoyance,  Rector,"  answered  Bach;  **I 
only  wished  to  announce  that  to-morrow  I  must 
start  upon  a  long  journey,  by  order  of  our  Elec- 
tor; and  so  you  will  give  me  a  fortnight's  leave 
of  absence,  I  suppose ! ' ' 

**What  do  I  hear?"  said  the  rector,  half 
breathless  with  astonishment  and  vexation,  ''a 
long  journey?— 'you  must'?— 'Elector'?— and  I 
have  heard  nothing  of  it  ?  Go,  go.  Bach ;  this  is 
another  roguish  little  plan  of  your  genial  artist's 
head!    How  should  Elector  Augustus"— 

' '  I  shall  play  the  organ  in  Dresden, ' '  said  the 
organist,  quietly,  interrupting  the  speaker;  "the 
Elector  has  so  determined." 

"This  really  sounds  rather  enigmatical  and 
dubious,"  said  the  rector,  smiling  mockingly; 
"however,  it  does  not  seem  to  me  that  the  jour- 
ney need  take  place  at  a  certain  time ;  therefore, 
I  declare  to  you  quite  plainly  that  I  cannot  spare 
you  for  the  next  four  weeks.  After  that,  I  shall 
place  no  obstacle  in  the  way  of  your  wishes.'* 

Bach's  open  countenance  showed  no  trace  of 
anger  or  emotion  during  this  spiteful  speech ;  the 

=13 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


wondrous  eyes  looked  fixedly  upon  the  dwarf- 
like antagonist,  and  an  indescribably  compas- 
sionate smile  played  around  the  mouth.  At  last 
he  said,  firmly  and  loudly :  '  *  Rector,  please  give 
me  a  decided  answer !  Can  I  have  a  fortnight 's 
holiday?'* 

*'No— no,"  cried  the  angry  man,  violently, 
*'and  for  the  last  time  no!" 

''Well  and  good,"  replied  the  organist;  *'so  I 
announce  to  you  that  I  will  go  without  permis- 
sion!" He  turned  away,  without  looking  back, 
and  with  hasty  steps  quitted  his  enemy's  room, 
whom  he  left  trembling  with  rage. 


So  select  an  assemblage  of  distinguished  and 
elegant  men  and  women  had  never  before  been 
collected  in  the  large,  handsome  Catholic  church 
of  magnificent  Dresden,  ss  was  present  on  the 
afternoon  of  the  Sunday  on  which  the  organist 
Bach  of  Leipzig  had  promised  to  play.  Countless 
gentlemen  in  their  shining  court-dresses;  mag- 
nificent ladies  in  glittering  attire;  some  clad  in 
costly  materials  and  precious  stones,  others  in 
the  more  charming  ornaments  of  fresh,  blooming 
youth.  They  formed  a  sparkling,  animated 
circle ;  and  in  their  midst  sat  the  royal  form  of 
Augustus  of  Saxony.  The  carriage  of  the  prince, 
although  he  was  advanced  in  years,  was  still 

=  14  


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


erect ;  he  held  his  head  high,  but  his  features — 
whose  former  beauty  was  now  revealed  only  by 
the  delicate  lines  about  the  nose  and  mouth,  as 
well  as  by  the  outline  of  the  chin— appeared 
sunken  and  listless,  and  the  fire  of  his  large  eyes 
was  extinguished.  Augustus  was  conversing  in 
a  low  tone  of  voice  with  his  favourite  Briihl,  who 
stood  at  his  side,  and  with  the  elegant  deport- 
ment of  a  finished  man  of  the  world  listened  to 
the  words  of  his  mighty  master  with  apparent 
subjection.  Ungovernable  pride  was  stamped 
upon  his  brow ;  insatiable  ambition  flashed  forth 
from  the  restless  eyes ;  boundless  thirst  of  power 
trembled  about  the  corners  of  the  delicate  lips. 
**And  so  the  droll  organist  would  absolutely 
not  come  to  court  last  evening?'*  whispered  the 
Elector,  smiling;  "I  shall  torment  him  so  much 
the  more  to-day :  as  soon  as  the  music  ceases,  I 
shall  ask  to  see  him ;  he  shall  be  carried  away  to 
supper,  and  at  the  ball  the  most  beautiful  of  the 
young  ladies  of  our  court  shall  invite  him  to 
dance."  Briihl  bowed  silently.  **We  are  all 
very  anxious  to  hear  the  celebrated  organist," 
continued  the  prince ;  *  *  suspense  can  be  read 
upon  every  face ;  Hasse  has  expectantly  elevated 
his  thick  eyebrows,  and  even  the  enchanting 
Faustina   casts   an   uneasy    glance    around   the 

=  15 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


church,  as  if  she  feared  to  discover  a  rival.  Our 
virtuoso  Marchand  alone  has  not  laid  aside  his 
mocking  smile.  But  there,  three  persons  appear 
in  the  choir!  Look,  Briihl!  Two  quite  youth- 
ful men  have  modestly  seated  themselves  at  one 
side;  and  what  lovely,  innocent  faces  they 
have!'' 

**They  are  the  organist's  two  eldest  sons,  your 
majesty,"  responded  Briihl. 

Then  a  tone  arose  from  the  organ,  like  a  heav- 
enly breath  of  air,  and  purified  all  hearts  from 
vain  thoughts.  Deep  silence  prevailed;  an  in- 
explicable devotion  thrilled  through  all,  and 
every  eye  was  turned  upwards.  A  magnificent 
prelude  swelled  forth  like  a  rich,  golden  stream 
upon  whose  shores  bloomed  heavenly  flowers, 
and  carried  the  expectant  soul  away  upon  its 
mighty  waves,  in  the  powerful,  sweeping  choral : 

„mn'  feftc  S5uxg  ift  uttfet  ©ott!"* 

*  „^in^  fefte  S5urg  ift  unfet  ®ott, 
@tn'  gute  SBel^t  unb  SOSaffen; 
@t  ^tlft  wn§  ftei  au§  allex  ^ot:^, 
S)te  un§  ie^t  :§at  Betroffen/' 

A  mighty  fortress  is  our  God, 

A  bulwaxk  never  failing; 
Our  helper  he,  amid  the  flood 

Of  mortal  ills  prevailing. 

Martin  Luther,  1483  t  1546. 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


The  proud  song  of  praise  of  the  evangelical 
Church  swept  along  the  choir  and  floated  down- 
wards, whilst  Father  Bach's  face  glowed  with 
happy  smiles ;  for  he  solemnized  at  this  moment, 
in  the  Catholic  house  of  prayer,  the  triumph  of 
his  beloved  Church.  Like  a  crowned  conqueror, 
the  elevated  melody  penetrated  through  the 
beautiful  aisles,  and  with  so  much  power  that  it 
seemed  as  though  an  invisible  choir  of  angels 
had  lent  to  it  their  voices.  The  harmonies 
flowed  continually  onward:  Father  Bach's  mind 
arose  higher  and  higher ;  the  moving  sounds  be- 
came ever  more  holy,  more  wondrous ;  a  gigantic, 
mysterious  voice  came  floating  on,  ever  stronger, 
striking  upon  each  heart  as  if  about  to  break  it, 
and  soaring  aloft  as  if  about  to  annihilate  all 
beneath  it.  Then  the  pillarf  of  the  church 
commenced  to  tremble ;  the  wailing  voices  of  all 
mankind  were  heard  imploring  compassion;  a 
whole  world  was  entreating  for  mercy.  Min- 
gled with  this  there  arose,  like  an  incense-offer- 
ing, the  melody : 

„etn'  fefte  S5utg  tft  unfet  ®ott !" 

And  then  the  mysterious  rustling  became  louder, 
as  though  in  answer  to  the  entreaties  of  believ- 
ing love.  At  last  the  imploring  voices  seemed 
to  grow  weary;  the  complaints  became  softer 
17  ■ 


MVSICAL  SKETCHISS 


and  ever  fainter,  the  beseeching  more  despond- 
ing; then  arose,  oh,  miracle,  the  sweet  forgive- 
ness !  The  lofty  ceiling  of  the  church  appeared 
to  float  away;  ethereal  blue  with  golden  streaks 
of  light  poured  in,  and  the  breath  of  spring 
filled  the  vast  halls.  Deep,  ardent  tones  were 
heard,  and  a  heavenly,  fervent  voice,  full  of  in- 
finite compassion,  promised  eternal  forgiveness 
to  sinners.  An  astonishment  mingled  with  be- 
lief and  pious  exultation  now  trembled  in  pure, 
holy  sounds;  and  at  last  there  arose,  powerful, 
mighty,— millions  of  happy  human  voices,  min- 
gled with  the  triumphant  Hallelujah  of  the 
angels,— the  brilliant  song  of  praise  called: 
„  (5tn^  f efte  ^utg  ift  unf et  ®ott!  " 

The  tones  of  the  organ  had  died  away.  John 
Sebastian  Bach  still  sat  upon  his  stool,  with 
folded  hands;  the  radiance  of  heaven  lay  upon 
his  countenance.  Pale  a^  death,  trembling  with 
bliss  at  the  success  of  their  honoured  father, 
the  sons  stood  near  him.  A  slight  noise  was 
heard  in  the  church;  a  side-door  of  the  choir 
was  opened,  and  the  Elector  entered;  behind 
him  came,  at  a  reverential  distance,  his  glitter- 
ing suite.  Augustus  of  Saxony  approached  al- 
most timidly  the  great  man,  who  sat  so  humbly 
before  him,  and  who,  lost  in  pious  dreams,  ap- 
-18  ■ 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


peared  not  to  remark  the  new-comer,  who  seemed 
unwilling  to  interrupt  his  prayerful  meditation. 
At  last  he  laid  his  hand  gently  upon  Bach's 
shoulder;  the  organist  started,  arose,  and  gazed 
frankly  and  smilingly  into  his  face.  The 
master's  soul  was  still  filled  with  the  splendour 
of  his  God,  into  whose  heaven  he  had  just  as- 
cended on  the  wings  of  harmony.  How  could 
worldly  power  and  earthly  glory  touch  him  in 
this  moment  of  holy  inspiration?  It  even  cost 
him  an  effort  to  find  words  for  speech.  *' Gra- 
cious sir,"  he  said,  in  a  low  tone,  after  a  long 
pause,  *'I  see  that  the  voice  of  God  has  reached 
the  inmost  recesses  of  your  heart!  Tell  me— 
does  not  a  wondrously  blissful  feeling  mingle 
itself  with  a  strange  anxiety  and  dread  ?  Do  you 
not  feel  as  though  you  were  enveloped  in  sun- 
shine? Do  you  not  long  to  view  larger,  more 
beautiful  worlds  than  this  little  grain  of  sand 
upon  which  we  were  born  ?  Does  not  all  earthly 
glory  fade  into  nothingness  beside  the  glittering 
splendour  of  heaven  above?  Would  you  not 
give  yourself  up,  mind  and  life,  to  the  divine 
voice  of  God,  and  be  carried  at  once  to  the  abode 
of  the  blest?" 

**Bach,"  answered  the  prince,  in  a  trembling 
voice,  as  he  stepped  close  to  him,  "the  presenti- 

=  19 ^ 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


merit  of  my  approaching  death  came  to  me  when 
I  heard  you  play  upon  the  organ !  The  thought, 
however,  had  no  terrors  for  me;  I  did  not  fear 
its  aspect  as  I  once  did,  when  I  meditated  in  the 
quiet  hours  of  evening  upon  the  obscure  enigma 
of  after-life.  Oh,  master,  if  I  might  but  hear 
you  play  at  my  dying  hour ! ' ' 

Bach  made  no  answer;  he  contemplated  his 
much-moved  royal  master  with  eyes  overflowing 
with  tender  emotion  and  joy.  His  devout  heart 
enjoyed  at  this  moment  a  greater  triumph  than 
did  his  artist's  pride.  There  was  a  rustling  at 
the  door;  a  woman  pressed  hastily  through  the 
prince's  suite— a  woman  in  the  fullest  bloom  of 
life,  tall,  finely  formed,  with  a  proud,  Juno-like 
head :  it  was  Faustina  Hasse,  the  adored  singer, 
the  much-praised  favourite  of  all  Dresden. 
She  rushed  towards  the  organist  with  all  the 
passion  of  an  Italian  woman ;  glowing  and  weep- 
ing, she  threw  her  arms  around  his  neck,  kissed 
him  vehemently  upon  both  cheeks,  and,  sobbing 
violently,  she  cried,  in  the  greatest  excitement: 
''Blest,  oh,  eternally  blest  be  thou,  dazzling  ray 
of  light!" 

Bach  was  filled  with  astonishment;  the  by- 
standers smiled;  then  Hasse  stepped  up,  drew 
his  wife  towards  him  with  gentle  force,  men- 

r20 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


tioned  his  own  name,  and  clasped  the  great 
master's  hands  with  unfeigned  reverence.  Even 
the  frivolous  French  mocker  and  elegant  vir- 
tuoso Marchand  drew  near:  his  handsome  lips 
were  no  longer  wreathed  in  scornful  smiles,  but 
his  eyes  shone  in  the  moist  light  of  deep  emotion. 
He  silently  pressed  the  master's  hand  to  his 
breast.  The  Elector's  suite  followed  the  favour- 
ite's example;  the  charming  court  ladies  did  not 
remain  indifferent ;  and  soon  the  most  beautiful 
little  hands  touched  the  organist's  cheeks  or 
fingers,  and  the  loveliest  lips  spoke  their  thanks. 
Suddenly  the  master  tore  himself  away  with 
gigantic  strength,  and  he  cried,  in  a  voice  whose 
thunder  was  reechoed  by  the  arches  of  the 
church:  ^'Enough!— Such  soft  caressing  and 
sporting  should  not  be  the  reward  of  my  serious 
organ-playing!  Away  from  me,  ye  seductive 
figures!  I  will  look  upon  you  no  longer!  I 
know  now  full  well  that  I  am  in  voluptuous 
Dresden ;  I  long  to  be  away  from  all  these  beau- 
tiful flowers  and  serpents;  I  long  to  return  to 
my  dear,  quiet  house,  and  to  my  wife  and  chil- 
dren! Gracious  sir,"  he  cried,  imploringly, 
turning  towards  the  Elector,  who  gazed  upon 
the  scene  with  a  melancholy  smile,  *'let  me  go! 
You  must  see  that  the  old  Sebastian  Bach  can 

=  21 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


never  be  at  home  here— that  he  knows  not  how- 
to  swim  in  these  streams ! ' ' 

''I  shall  not  let  you  depart,"  graciously  re- 
plied the  prince,  *' until  you  have  asked  for  a 
favour  for  yourself!" 

"You  can  give  me  nothing,  my  Elector," 
Bach  answered,  openly ;  * '  I  am  richer  than  you ; 
still,  I  thank  you!" 

"But  remember  your  sons!"  mildly  con- 
tinued Augustus. 

"Well,  then,  gracious  sir,  if  you  could  do 
something  for  my  Friedemann,"— and  he  drew 
the  blushing  one  towards  him,— "it  would 
please  me  much!  But  not  for  two  years;  for  I 
need  my  boy  myself ;  he  is  a  good  engraver,  and 
"we  are  now  working  upon  the  Passion  music. 
My  Philip"— he  then  nodded  to  his  second 
son— "has  already  been  provided  for  by  the 
Lord;  he  is  succeeding  well.  I  thank  you, 
therefore,  with  my  whole  heart,  my  most  gra- 
cious Elector ! ' ' 

The  Elector  now  dismissed  the  much  rever- 
enced master  with  the  most  flattering  promises 
for  Friedemann 's  future;  he  took  their  hands, 
and  as  they  departed  he  promised  to  each  his  fa- 
vour. The  most  distinguished  gentlemen  pressed 
forward,  in  order  to  descend  with  them;  and 
they  assisted  the  organist  into  the  carriage  with 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


as  much  care  and  reverence  as  if  he  had  been 
the  mightiest  ruler  of  the  world. 


On  the  following  morning  John  Sebastian 
Bach  and  his  sons  were  rolling  gayly  and  hap- 
pily towards  their  beloved  home.  As  they  drove 
by  the  magnificent,  gigantic  fort,  and  as  the 
glorious  Elbe  unveiled  itself  to  their  admiring 
eyes,  Fhilip  Emanuel  exclaimed,  excitedly: 
*' Dearest  father,  Dresden  is  wondrously  beauti- 
ful; but  the  most  beautiful  thing  of  all  is— 
Faustina  Hasse!" 

*'Hush,  boy,"  cried  the  master— although  a 
roguish  smile  played  about  the  corners  of  his 
mouth;  **you  do  not  understand  such  things!" 


23 


Iphigenia  in  Aulis 

"I   press   my   wreath 
Upon  the  lofty  master's  noble  brow.'' 

Goethe's  Tasso, 

O  MUSIC,  how  blest  is  the  brow  that  thou 
encirclest  with  thy  halo!  Like  unto  a 
mighty  talisman,  thy  rays  avert  the  countless 
sorrows  of  man;  those  whom  thou  adornest 
wander  forth  protected  upon  the  uneven  paths 
of  earth  and  through  the  darkness  of  its  nights ; 
nor  do  they  stumble:— all  shadows  vanish 
before  their  prophetic  eyes. 

*' Solitude  amidst  the  greatest  tumult,  amidst 
the  busiest  life,  is  truly  real  solitude!"— You 
might  have  said  this  to  yourself,  had  you 
glanced  at  a  serious,  thoughtful  man  who  had 
seated  himself  upon  a  little  bench  in  the  ver- 
dant garden  of  the  park  of  Versailles  one  lovely 
April  afternoon.  His  face  was  turned  away 
from  the  moving  multitude,  and  was  directed 
upwards;  his  lofty,  cleai^  brow  bore  the  radiant 
mark  of  unwonted  grandeur  of  mind;  the  sun- 

=  24. 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


shine  did  not  seem  to  dazzle  the  open  blue  eyes, 
and  a  trace  of  heavenly  inspiration  played 
about  the  noble  mouth.  The  man's  dress  was 
simple,  indeed,  almost  careless,  and,  on  account 
of  its  grey  hue,  contrasted  strikingly  with  the 
richly  embroidered  costumes  of  the  gentlemen 
of  the  French  court  of  the  period;  for  it  was 
the  year  1774,  and  Louis  the  Sixteenth  ruled 
over  beautiful  France. 

The  countless  promenaders,  who  flitted  to 
and  fro  like  a  swarm  of  bees,  seated  themselves, 
talked,  coquetted,  laughed,  and  paid  no  atten- 
tion to  the  stranger;  even  the  flower-girls  with 
their  violets  became  weary  of  tormenting  him, 
and  lavished  no  longer  glances  nor  smiles  upon 
him.  By  degrees  the  crowd  dispersed;  it  grew 
more  quiet  in  the  garden;  the  noisy  children's 
voices  became  silent;  the  rays  of  the  sun  shone 
less  ardently,  the  blue  of  the  sky  darkened;  the 
little  birds,  intoxicated  with  the  spring,  sought 
their  nests ;  and  at  last  all  was  still.  Then  the 
solitary  stranger  slowly  arose  from  his  seat  and 
prepared  to  turn  homewards,  but,  still  medi- 
tating, missed  his  way  and  lost  himself  in  the 
intricacies  of  the  park.  There  all  was  enchant- 
ing and  mysterious;  lovely  Spring  seemed  to 
have    hidden    herself  in    these    thick    avenues, 

i  =25  • 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


arbours,  and  thickets;  everywhere  flowers 
bloomed  and  diffused  their  fragrance,  fountains 
related  splashingly  their  charming  water-fairy 
tales,  and  white  marble  statues  of  the  gods 
peeped  with  stolen  glances  through  the  fresh 
young  verdure. 

The  wanderer  stopped,  and  smiled  dreamily; 
but  it  was  not  the  splendour  of  this  wondrous 
garden  that  had  called  this  beaming  smile  to 
his  lips;  no,  it  must  have  sprung  from  the 
silent  one's  inmost  soul,  for  sweet  thoughts  ap- 
peared to  agitate  him.  At  one  moment  he 
would  raise  his  hands,  then,  quickly  dropping 
them,  he  would  pace  hastily  up  and  down, 
humming  a  melody,  at  times  very  low,  at 
others,  passionately:— it  was  a  soft,  foreboding 
complaint.  Then  his  expressive  face  grew 
dark;  a  storm  seemed  to  pass  over  his  lofty 
brow,  fiery  glances  flashed  from  his  eyes,  and, 
in  a  rich,  powerful  voice,  he  sang  the  following 
recitative : 

*'Go  and  seek  death  through  thy  father's 
hand!  Unto  the  dread  altar  shall  my  foot  fol- 
low thee!  There  will  I  paralyze  the  arm  that 
threatens  thee!" 

Then  he  clenched  his  hand,  his  proud  figure 
rose    to    its    full    height,    he    raised    his    arms 

—  26  


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


violently,     and    sang,    with  heart-rending   pas- 
sion, with  noble  wrath: 

*  *  He  will  soon  be  the  prey  of  my  anger ! 
I  shall  draw  my  sword  upon  him! 
The  altar  that  they  impiously  deck, 
My  threatening  arm  will  cast  it  in  the  dust.*' 

Suddenly  two  stately  Swiss  soldiers  rushed 
like  an  infuriated  pair  of  tigers  from  out  the 
bushes,  seized  the  excited  one  by  the  shoulders, 
and  hurled  a  flood  of  German  and  French 
terms  of  reproach  upon  him.  ''Villain !'' 
screamed  one,  in  broken  German,  ''you  would 
raise  your  hand  against  Louis's  palace?  You 
would  kill  the  king  with  a  sword?  You  w^ould 
destroy  the  holy  Church,  and  break  the  altar  of 
the  Lord?"— "And  here,"  angrily  snorted  the 
other,  "the  blasphemer  destroys  the  flower-beds 
of  the  royal  private  park,  treads  down  all  the 
violets  as  well  as  les  jolies  marguerites.  Away, 
away  with  him  to  prison ! ' ' 

The  stranger  was  completely  disconcerted  for 
a  few  moments:  he  stared  upon  them  without 
uttering  a  word,  and,  with  an  expression  of 
unbounded  amazement,  east  a  long,  astonished 
glance  upon  the  destruction  caused  by  his  feet; 
at  last  a  faint,  mocking  smile  spread  over  his 

=  27 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


features.  ''Very  well,"  he  quietly  said  to  his 
gigantic  captors,  whose  eyes  had  suspiciously 
followed  all  his  movements;  ''drag  me  whither 
you  will,  but  first  I  demand  to  be  led  before 
your  queen;  I  will  justify  myself  to  her!"— 
The  soldiers  made  signs  to  each  other,  showing 
that  they  doubted  their  prisoner's  sanity,  but 
nodded  assent  to  him;  and  the  little  party 
moved  onward. 

As  they  reached  the  palace-yard,  a  richly  gilt 
carriage  drove  up,  drawn  by  four  spirited  white 
horses,  whose  heads  were  ornamented  with  gor- 
geous blue  plumes ;  it  stopped  before  the  palace- 
gate.  The  door  sprang  open;  a  light,  graceful 
female  form  descended  from  the  fairy-like  seat, 
which  was  ornamented  with  precious  stones  and 
covered  with  blue  velvet.  A  black  velvet  hat 
with  waving  feathers  was  placed  on  the  top  of 
the  prettiest  little  powdered  head;  pink  satin 
and  laces  covered  the  beautiful  figure.  This 
brilliant  apparition  was  Marie  Antoinette, 
Queen  of  France.  Whilst  her  stout  companion 
was  painfully  descending  from  the  carriage, 
the  lively  queen,  who  was  looking  curiously 
about  her,  remarked  the  mysterious  prisoner 
who  was  held  tightly  in  the  grasp  of  the  Swiss. 

"What  is  taking  place  here?"  she  exclaimed. 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


hastily,  in  German,  as  she  lingered  upon  the 
threshold.  At  the  sound  of  this  voice  the  cap- 
tive raised  his  proud  head  higher,  and  smiled 
joyfully ;  a  faint  cry  escaped  the  rosy  lips  of  the 
princess.  ''Oh,  Master  Gluck,"  she  cried,  en- 
chanted, extending  her  hand;  *'dear,  dear 
Gluek,  who  is  it  that  dares  to  fetter  free  genius 
in  my  realm?'' 

Gluck's  eyes  sparkled;  at  a  sign  from  their 
mistress,  the  bewildered  Swiss  withdrew. 

''Come,  master,  follow  me,"  gayly  continued 
the  queen;  "you  shall  not  slip  away  from  me! 
Now  I  am  to  be  your  jailor.  Tell  me  quickly, 
how  came  you  to  our  palace-gate  in  such  suspi- 
cious company  ?  Come,  you  must  tarry  an  hour 
or  so  in  the  apartments  of  your  former 
pupil."— She  flew  up  the  carpeted  flight  of 
stairs  with  such  girlish  rapidity  that  Gluck 
could  scarcely  follow  her.  At  a  word  from  the 
queen,  the  astonished  train  of  servants  re- 
mained behind.  Marie  Antoinette  rapidly 
passed  through  many  golden  shining  chambers 
of  state  with  her  silent  companion,  then  opened 
an  arras-door,  and  entered  a  charming,  simple 
little  room,  from  whose  window  the  wondrously 
beautiful  garden,  decked  in  spring-like  fresh- 
ness, was  visible. 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


''Princess,"  exclaimed  Gluck,  visibly  sur- 
prised, "why,  this  is  the  cosy  room  of  our  be- 
loved Archduchess  Marie  when  at  the  Imperial 
Palace  in  Vienna!     What  a  pleasing  miracle!" 

"Do  you,  indeed,  recognize  it?"  inquired  the 
queen,  much  moved,  as  she  gave  the  master  a 
comfortable  chair.— "Come,"  she  said,  with 
charming  grace  and  cordiality,  "we  will  speak 
German,  and  talk  about  our  dear  Vienna. 
Shall  we  not,  Gluck?  Now,  so  long  as  you 
remain  here  seated  by  me,  let  me  imagine  my- 
self to  be  the  merry,  careless,  happy  Princess 
Marie,  the  favourite  of  her  stately  imperial 
mother,  and  the  unapt  pupil  of  the  great  Master 
Gluck!" 

During  this  speech  she  had  thrown  off  her 
pink  cloak  and  her  plumed  hat,  and  now  she 
stood  before  her  former  teacher  in  a  pale-green 
silk  dress,  with  a  bunch  of  orange-blossoms  and 
roses  upon  her  breast,  looking  very,  very  lovely. 
Then  she  threw  herself  into  a  low  chair,  placed 
her  little  feet  comfortably  upon  a  red  velvet 
cushion,  and  continued:  "Ah,  Gluck,  how 
often  have  I  secretly  longed  to  be  able  to  talk 
with  you  without  restraint  about  old  times, 
since  I  received  the  tidings  of  your  arrival  in 
Paris!     But  the    tiresome    court  festivals    pre- 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


vented  me  from  fulfilling  the  wishes  of  my 
heart.  I  have  not  seen  you  since  that  stiff  re- 
ception when  you  were  presented  to  the  king, 
and  brought  me  letters  from  Vienna;  then  I 
could  scarcely  recognize  you  in  your  court- 
dress,  and  I  laughed  secretly  when  I  beheld 
your  proud  bow,  which  suited  your  dress  so 
ill;  but  when  I  saw  that  almost  imperceptible 
movement  of  the  head,  which  made  all  our 
courtiers  stare,  then  it  was  that  I  recognized 
our  Gluck.  How  much  better  you  please  me 
now,  in  this  plain  grey  suit!  Once  more  I  find 
the  image  of  my  dear  old  teacher." 

*' Gracious  Archduchess,"  absently  answered 
the  master,  **  those  tvere  pleasant  hours  that  I 
passed  in  the  cosy  blue  room  of  the  Princess  at 
the  Imperial  Palace  in  Vienna,  and  Marie 
Antoinette  was  a  very  observant,  docile  pupil, 
eager  to  learn  and  indefatigable  as  are  few 
others. ' ' 

**Not  always,  Gluck,  not  always,"  inter- 
rupted the  queen,  shaking  her  head;  **only 
remember  how  angry  you  were  sometimes  when 
I  played  badly  because  I  was  thinking  of  a 
court-ball  or  of  a  brilliant  sleighing-party ! 
Have  you  forgotten  how  often  I  did  not  like 
the  fugues  of  Bach?  How  well  I  remember 
that  you  would— and  that  not  seldom— hastily 

=31 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


push  me  away  from  the  piano,  with  the  words: 
'Archduchess,  such  jingling  is  really  unendur- 
able ! '  And  then  you  would  take  my  place,  and 
you  would  thunder  away  at  the  fugues  until  I 
lost  both  sight  and  hearing,  and  would  retire 
to  the  farthest  corner  of  the  room  with  invol- 
untary timidity.  Oh,  and  then  you  would  play 
on  and  on,  and  ever  more  gloriously,  whilst  I 
would  listen  with  increasing  awe;  until  the 
door  would  open,  softly,  softly,  and  the  Em- 
press would  enter,  and  little  by  little  the  silent 
listeners  would  gather  and  fill  the  room— then 
the  adjoining  one— and  then  the  corridors! 
You,  however,  not  aware  of  this,  would  fly 
away  farther  and  ever  higher  on  the  wings  of 
harmony,  until  at  last  one  of  the  crowded  list- 
eners would  accidentally  upset  something,  or 
the  half -smothered  stout  lady-of-the-household 
would  have  an  attack  of  her  spasmodic  cough: 
then  you  would  stop  suddenly,  as  though  you 
felt  a  sudden  pang,  and  rise  hastily,  with  the 
words:  'That  was  well  played.  Archduchess!' 
—Often  you  were  so  strange  and  so  absent- 
minded  that  I  did  not  venture  to  say  a  syllable ; 
then  Marie  Antoinette  could  play  as  she 
pleased;  Master  Gluck  heard  nothing,  scolded 
at  no  false  note,  at  no  discord,  at  no  slow  allegro 
or  fast  andante;  my    teacher's  eyes    were  im- 

=r32  = 


GLUCK 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


movably  fixed  on  high;  at  one  moment  he 
would  murmur  indistinct  words,  at  another  his 
hands  would  play  in  convulsive  haste  upon  the 
top  of  the  piano,  and,  after  such  singular 
reveries,  he  would  spring  up,  look  around  him 
with  a  happy,  inspired  face,  and  whisper, 
softly:  *Ha!  at  last,  at  last  thou  art  mine, 
holy  melody!'  And  then  he  would  turn  to  me, 
as  though  no  interruption  had  taken  place,  and 
say:  'Continue,   continue.  Archduchess!'  " 

Gluek  gazed  upon  his  former  pupil  with 
fatherly  kindness;  his  brow  grew  more  serene 
under  the  influence  of  the  lively,  merry,  and 
happy  expression  of  her  lovely  face.  "We 
have  remained  unchanged,  your  majesty,"  he 
at  last  said,  dreamily,  '^you,  the  careless,  child- 
ish, joyous,  gracious  princess,  I  the  capricious, 
strange,  visionary  Gluck!" 

The  conversation  turned  on  Gluck's  latest 
work;  then  the  queen  asked  him  about  his 
opera.  ''It  is  called  'Iphigenia  in  Aulis,'  " 
she  inquired,  "is  it  not?  Will  the  piece  soon 
be  produced?  Have  the  repetitions  yet  com- 
menced ? ' ' 

"Ah,  your  majesty,"  answered  the  master, 
"I  gave  the  first  rehearsal  to-day  in  the  royal 
gardens.  Have  you  forgotten  my  forced  ap- 
pearance here  this  afternoon?     I  had  been  de- 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


claiming  the  recitative  and  the  first  ten  meas- 
ures of  the  great  and  passionate  aria  of  my 
Achilles,  when  the  brave  protectors  of  the  king 
and  his  park  seized  upon  me.  The  honest  Swiss 
thought  that  my  Achilles,  who  was  raving 
about  his  drawn  sword,  was  threatening  the 
life  of  their  high  master,  and,  singularly 
enough,  they  confounded  Louis  the  Sixteenth 
with  old  Agamemnon!" 

**Poor,  misrepresented,  ill-treated  singer," 
said  the  queen,  jestingly;  *'how  fortunate  it 
was  that  I  should  be  the  powerful  ruler  of 
France  at  the  moment  they  wished  to  drag 
away  my  dear  master!— But,  tell  me  seriously, 
how  will  it  be  with  Iphigenia  ?  When  will  it  be 
brought  out?  I  confess  to  you  that  I  can 
scarcely  await  the  triumph  of  my  countryman 
and  teacher  over  the  multitude  of  Piccinis, 
Sacchinis,  and  LuUys ! ' ' 

''I  do  not  yet  dream  of  victory,"  answered 
Gluck,  with  melancholy;  **they  do  not  even 
speak  of  a  fixed  time  for  its  representation;  in 
the  mean  while  I  fight  valiantly  and  incessantly 
against  the  secret  but  mighty  power  of  intrigue 
and  cunning  malice;  countless  stabs  are  given 
me,  all  rehearsals  are  postponed,  and  public 
opinion  is  misled  in  advance.  However,  I  shall 
not  give  up,  I  shall  not  rest;  my  work  deserves 

=  34  = 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


all  my  energy  in  order  to  smooth  its  path  to- 
wards the  hearts  of  men.  Should  I  succumb 
beneath  the  weight  of  these  contests,  it  will  be 
without  a  sigh,  without  a  tear— for  I  shall 
leave  behind  me  a  dazzling  trace  of  my  exist- 
ence; I  shall  not  have  lived  in  vain!— Yes, 
queen,"  continued  the  master,  with  elevated 
voice  and  increasing  inspiration,  ''this  young- 
est child  of  my  brain,  this  fruit  of  my  high  and 
holy  hours  of  devotion,  is  a  good  work !  I  have 
placed  in  it  the  noblest  emotions  of  my  soul, 
the  purest  feelings  of  my  heart,  and  my  most 
elevated,  most  serious  thoughts !  Queen,  in  this 
opera  my  individual  being  and  existence  are 
revealed;  this  opera  will  show  posterity  who 
I  was  and  what  I  wished  to  be !  This  music  is 
entirely  Gluck!  I  have  not  only  felt  it,  but  I 
have  thought  it;  it  is  my  acknowledged,  indis- 
putable property— myself !  The  days  and 
nights  of  error  and  torment  have  passed  away, 
the  fierce  struggles  and  passionate,  restless 
endeavours  are  over;  clearness,  harmony,  truth, 
and  nature,  the  ideal  of  my  soul,  stand  unveiled 
and  near  to  mine  eyes;  my  aim  will  soon  be 
happily  attained!" 

Gluck  was  silent.  How  wonderful  was  the 
expression  of  his  animated,  classical  features, 
that    seemed  to  gaze    upon  a  more    beautiful 

=  85  = 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


world!  Marie  Antoinette  looked  upon  him 
with  astonishment  and  reverence.  At  last  she 
exclaimed,  enthusiastically:  ''Dear  master, 
trust  your  queen !  Your  Iphigenia  shall  be 
brought  out;  yes,  and  soon— in  the  following 
week— by  my  orders!  I  will  brush  away  the 
cobwebs  of  envy  by  my  royal  command.  To- 
morrow I  shall  acquaint  the  director  of  the 
Royal  Opera  with  my  decided  wishes.  You 
shall  no  longer  struggle  and  contend ;  you  shall 
triumph,  and  I  myself  will  crown  the  victor!" 
Gluck  gazed,  pleased,  but  incredulous,  into 
the  face  of  the  excited  speaker;  for  might  not 
a  single  brilliant  festival  cause  her  to  forget 
her  earnest  promises?  But  he  met  so  serious 
a  firmness,  such  conscious  security,  that  he 
bowed,  much  moved,  and  silently  pressed  the 
hand  of  the  charming  queen  to  his  lips. 


It  was  midnight  on  the  19th  day  of  April, 
1774,  when  the  opera-house  in  Paris  echoed 
with  cries  of  delight  such  as  had  never  before 
been  heard  there:  the  Iphigenia  in  Aulis,  by 
Gluck,  the  great  German  composer,  had  just 
ended.  The  audience  had  accompanied  each  air 
with  increasing  marks  of  approbation;  but  the 
glorious,    magnificent,    and    passionate    aria    of 

-36  == 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


Achilles  wrought  their  enthusiasm  to  the 
highest  pitch;  the  officers  instinctively  drew 
their  swords;  the  effect  was  magical.  The  pub- 
lic was  excited  to  a  degree  that  defies  descrip- 
tion; it  was  what  we  ever-cold  Germans  call 
''insanity:"  tears  flowed,  smiles  of  the  highest 
rapture  were  seen,  sobs  were  audible,  Gluck's 
name  sounded  from  a  thousand  lips,  countless 
flowers  were  scattered  upon  the  stage. 

Marie  Antoinette  leaned  upon  the  red  velvet 
cushion  of  the  royal  box,  in  magnificent  attire, 
doing  honour  to  her  beloved  teacher's  triumph 
with  overflowing  eyes.  Louis  the  Sixteenth 
stood  near  her,  much  excited;  his  usually  pale 
face,  with  its  kind  eyes,  was  slightly  flushed; 
he  gazed  with  lively  sympathy  upon  the  noisy, 
enthusiastic  crowd.  ** Heavens,"  he  suddenly 
exclaimed,  and  turned  towards  the  queen,  '*  sup- 
pose the  joy,  the  feverish  rapture,  of  this 
easily  excited  people  converted  into  rage!— 
Suppose  the  angry  feelings  of  this  crowd  were 
to  boil  up  as  high  as  does  now  the  sea  of  their 
delight!  What  a  terrible,  insupportable  pic- 
ture!" Marie  Antoinette  could  not  answer; 
she  looked  at  the  king  with  astonishment;  still, 
she  shuddered  involuntarily,  and  anxiously 
seized  her  husband's  arm.     "Where  can  Gluck 

=37  = 


MV81CAL  SKETCSSS 


be?"  she  whispered,  restlessly,  almost  in- 
audibly. 

He  was  behind  the  scenes,  tearing  himself 
away  from  the  stifling  embraces  of  his  ad- 
mirers, seeking  to  escape  from  the  eulogies  of 
his  vanquished  enemies;  he  cordially  pressed 
the  hand  of  his  conquered  adversary  Piccini, 
who  had  been  deeply  moved,  and  then  followed, 
with  unsteady  steps,  a  servant,  who  waited  to 
lead  him  to  the  royal  box.  He  was  half  uncon- 
scious, almost  fainting,  from  excess  of  emotion. 
When  he  entered,  he  involuntarily  bowed 
before  the  king,  but  the  light  of  the  tapers  daz- 
zled his  eyes :  all  seemed  to  wave  and  reel  about 
him;  his  heart  beat  convulsively,  and  he  strug- 
gled for  breath.  The  queen  approached  him, 
and  placed,  with  a  lovely  smile,  a  fresh,  green 
wreath  of  laurel  upon  the  inclined  head  of  the 
honoured  hero  of  sounds. 

Then  the  master  hastily  drew  himself  up,  his 
eyes  flashed  wildly,  as  he  passed  his  thin  hand 
repeatedly  across  his  pallid  brow,  casting  at  the 
same  time  glances  of  intense  horror  upon  the 
queen.  "All-merciful  God,"  he  at  last  ex- 
claimed, with  a  piercing  cry,  **what  a  fearful 
sight!  August  sovereign,  pray,  quickly  wipe 
away  yon  terrible  streak  of  blood  that  encircles 
your  dazzling  throat !     Who  gave  you  such  an 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


ornament?  Destroy  it!  Oh,  hasten,  hasten; 
with  every  breath  the  fearful  purple  band  in- 
creases! Your  head  totters;  the  band  becomes 
a     stream;— too     late,     too     late!       Heavenly 

Father!" With    this    exclamation    he    fell, 

fainting. 

**Gluck  must  see  spirits,"  whispered  the 
king,  pale  as  death;  **the  violent  emotion  has 
made  him  ill;  the  victory  has  been  too  sudden, 
both  for  body  and  soul!"— Marie  Antoinette 
trembled  and  shook  in  every  limb ;  sobbing,  ter- 
rified as  a  child,  she  hastily  tore  off  the  shin- 
ing, costly  ruby  necklace,  which  lay  in  a  glit- 
tering circle  around  her  snowy  throat,  and 
hurled  it  far  away  from  her.  Recommending 
her  unconscious  teacher  to  the  care  of  her 
physician  and  to  that  of  her  servants,  she 
hastily  left  her  box. 

Little  didst  thou  think,  great,  radiant  Or- 
pheus of  the  new  world,  that  the  veil  of 
futurity  was  lifted  for  thy  prophetic  eye  in 
that  moment  of  excitement  when  thy  lips  gave 
utterance  to  those  terrifying  words! 

The  unfading  laurel-trees  of  thy  glory  had 
long  since  entwined  their  luxuriant  branches 
into  a  dense  arbour  over  thy  silent  grave;  be- 
tween  their   leaves   there   shone,   with   golden, 

=  39 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


glittering,  countless  buds,  and  odorous,  won- 
drous blossoms,  Alceste,  Orpheus,  Helena,  Ar- 
mida,  and  those  lovely  sister  flowers  on  one 
stem,  thy  two  Iphigenias!  Eesting  wert  thou 
from  the  battle  of  life,  victorious,  and  the 
hymns  of  praise,  of  posterity,  no  longer  reached 
thy  ear;  cherubim  and  seraphim  listened  to  the 
inspired  sounds  of  thy  lyre  in  a  blissful  world : 
then  came  the  bloody  fulfilment  of  thy  predic- 
tion. Nineteen  years  after  that  evening  of 
glorious  triumph,  the  purple  band  about  the 
throat  of  thy  beautiful  and  unhappy  princess 
became  a  stream  of  blood:  Marie  Antoinette's 
head  fell  beneath  the  stroke  of  the  guillotine  in 
October  of  the  year  1793. 


40 


Violetta 

"Bent   in  itself,   unknown   to   view, 
A  violet  on  the  meadow  grew, 
A  violet  of  the  loveliest  hue/' 

Goethe. 

THERE  is  a  little  village,  situated  a  few 
miles  from  Vienna,  whose  name  I  have 
forgotten;  it  matters  not,  however,  for  in  the 
whole  world  there  is  none  other  so  charming. 
A  chapel  stands  on  the  hill,  wild  roses  and  ivy 
cling  to  its  grey  walls,  whilst  neat,  low,  white 
houses  gaze  humbly  out  of  their  luxuriant  cov- 
ering upon  the  windows  of  the  little  church,  as 
though  they  were  pious  beggars.  This  peaceful 
spot  is  entirely  encircled  by  lofty  linden  and 
chestnut  trees. 

The  organist's  house  was  the  prettiest  in  the 
village:  it  was  detached  from  the  others,  but, 
like  them,  was  almost  hidden  by  foliage.  The 
old  organist  took  delight  in  attending  to  his 
plants;  but  among  the  profusion  of  roses,  vio- 
lets, lilies,  and  tulips,  the  most  beautiful  flower 
that  bloomed  was  his  dear  little  daughter 
Violetta.  He  had  buried  his  faithful  wife 
when  his  child  was  but  six  years  old;  this  had 

r  =41 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


been  the  greatest  grief  of  his  life,  whose  cur- 
rent had  until  then  flowed  on  quietly  and 
peacefully  as  that  of  a  brook.  He  possessed, 
however,  a  wondrously  powerful  consoler,  into 
whose  arms  he  threw  himself  when  his  beloved 
companion  closed  her  eyes;  it  was  her  soft 
hand  that  smoothed  away  all  discomfort,  that 
alleviated  every  sorrow:  this  comforter  was 
called— Music ;  she  was  indeed  fervently  loved, 
and  became  the  sole  mistress  of  his  heart. 

He  cherished  another  precious  treasure — an 
old  spinet— which  was  placed  in  the  corner  of 
his  sitting-room;  here  it  was  that  the  organist 
held  intercourse  with  the  spirits  of  the  great 
Bach  and  Handel,  conversed  with  the  old 
Italian  masters,  and  forgot  himself  whilst 
wandering  in  the  magic  realms  which  they  dis- 
closed to  him. 

To  Violetta  these  conversations  did  not 
always  seem  charming  or  beautiful;  the  spinet 
rustled  and  hummed  at  times  most  strangely, 
for  her  father's  fingers  often  lingered  too  long 
upon  the  keys;  she  took  good  care  never  to  say 
this,  but  sat  quietly  and  pleasantly  at  her 
work;  then,  when  the  player  stopped,  and, 
highly  excited,  and  speechless,  would  turn  to 
her  with  an  enraptured  countenance,  she  would 

.42  


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


nod  at  him  with  a  smile,  and  gently  kiss  his 
brow.  Her  father  would  often  relate  to  her 
what  he  knew  about  the  old  masters;  but  she 
disliked  to  hear  that  the  great  Sebastian  Bach 
had  worn  an  ugly  old  wig,  and  that  Master 
Handel  took  so  much  snuff.  She  shuddered  to 
have  the  pleasant  bright  portraits  that  her 
fancy  pictured  to  her,  of  those  noble  artists, 
destroyed.  The  old  organist  repeated  the  same 
stories  almost  every  day;  Violetta  listened  to 
them  with  quiet  attention  (one  might  almost  call 
it  devotion),  as  though  she  heard  them  for  the 
first  time;  not  a  feature  of  her  lovely  face 
showed  the  slightest  trace  of  fatigue.  She  also 
had  seen  a  celebrated  musician,  this  happy 
Violetta,  nor  did  she  ever  forget  it;  by  some  he 
was  called  ** Father  Haydn,"  but  Violetta 's 
father  always  called  him  "his  king,"  and  in  the 
old  man's  heart  there  glowed  an  adoration  and 
love  for  him,  whose  power  his  child  could  not 
suspect. 

When  she  was  a  little  girl,  her  father  had 
once  taken  her  with  him  to  the  great  imperial 
city,  and  there  she  had  heard,  in  a  magnificent 
church,  a  glorious  work,  called  the  ''Seasons." 
The  child's  soul,  although  blissfully  and 
strangely  moved,  was  almost  crushed  by  the 
powerful  masses  of  sound  that  streamed  upon  it 

-43 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


for  the  first  time.  She  dreamed  of  the  balmy- 
air  of  '* Spring;"  she  breathed  the  intense  heat 
of  ** Summer;"  then  the  huntsman's  horn 
sounded  merrily,  and  spoke  to  her  of  the  de- 
licious days  of  "Autumn;"  but  as  cold,  icy 
** Winter"  approached,  she  clung  ever  closer  to 
her  father.  He,  however,  scarcely  knew  that 
his  child  existed;  he  sat  beside  Violetta,  and 
listened,  half  breathlessly,  alternately  laughing 
and  weeping.  When  all  was  over,  he  took  his 
child  by  the  hand,  pushed  his  way  through  the 
throng,  and  passed  out  of  the  church.  With- 
out were  many  people,  old  and  young,  men  and 
women,  and  in  their  midst  stood  an  elderly 
slender  man,  with  a  countenance  like  peace 
itself,  and  a  pair  of  eyes  that  reminded  one  of 
heaven.  From  the  mouths  of  all  around 
sounded  the  name  of  "Father  Haydn!"  Vio- 
letta looked  at  him  with  timid  reverence  and 
streaming  eyes;  Father  Haydn  had  for  every 
one  a  friendly  word,  a  shake  of  the  hand,  or  a 
kind  glance;  smiles,  gentle  merriment  and  jest, 
hovered  continually  upon  his  lips.  Then  Vio- 
letta's  father  forced  his  way  through  the  dense 
circle,  and,  seizing  Haydn's  hand,  exclaimed, 
in  a  half-suffocated  voice:  "Thanks,  Father 
Haydn!"  The  master  pressed  his  hand,  nod- 
ded to  him,  and  smiled.    It  is  true  that  Violetta 

-44  


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


had  seen  all  this;  nevertheless  she  was  obliged 
to  listen  daily  to  this  occurrence,  which  was  a 
beaming  light  in  her  father  ^s  life.  *'If  I  were 
to  see  my  king  once  more,  child  of  ray  heart," 
he  sometimes  said,  *' believe  me,  I  would  die  of 
joy;  for  when  I  held  that  blessed  creative  hand 
in  mine  I  felt  as  if  my  heart  must  break ! ' ' 

One  day,  when  the  linden-trees  and  the 
roses  were  in  full  bloom,  and  the  village  looked 
its  loveliest,  Violetta  sat  dreaming  in  the  gar- 
den, as  was  often  her  wont,  and  her  father 
reclined  in  the  arbour,  reading.  Suddenly  a 
trilling  was  heard  behind  the  garden-fence,  and 
a  fresh,  merry  face  peered  over  the  thick  hedge, 
quite  close  to  the  pretty  Violetta.  The  new- 
comer was  a  slight  young  man,  who  appeared 
fatigued;  he  carried  a  small  portfolio  under 
his  arm,  and  a  heavy  stick  in  his  hand ;  a  little 
black  hat  covered  his  head,  his  thick  light- 
brown  hair  was  in  disorder,  and  a  tame  starling 
sat  upon  his  shoulder.  The  stranger  said,  im- 
ploringly, and  his  blue  eyes  spoke  more  elo- 
quently than  his  words:  **Dear,  charming 
maiden,  let  me  enter!"  Without  awaiting 
other  answer  than  Violetta 's  smile,  he  sprang 
boldly  over  the  hedge.  The  old  organist  hur- 
riedly approached,  and  found  Violetta  laugh- 
ing until  the  tears  rolled  down  her  cheeks;  for 

=  45 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


the  young  man  had  lost  his  portfolio  whilst 
taking  this  salto  mortale;  loose  music  and 
pencils  flew  in  every  direction;  the  starling 
screamed:  *' Misfortune  upon  misfortune!** 
and  chattered  away  confusedly  in  Italian. 

The  bold  leaper  held  out  his  hand  to  the 
organist,  and  said:  *'Dear  papa,  you  see  before 
you  a  musical  student  from  Vienna,  who  has 
been  running  about  all  day  for  the  purpose  of 
stealing  some  melodies  from  the  dear  little 
forest-birds;  but  my  intermeddler  here'*— 
pointing  at  the  starling,  who  looked  at  him  with 
his  shrewd  eyes— *' has  deceived  me  shame- 
fully; he  has  pecked  at  my  provision  of  bread, 
and  frightened  away  the  most  charming 
singers  with  his  insipid  prattle.  I  beg  you 
most  earnestly  to  change  the  insupportable  and 
eternal  Moll-tone  of  a  sorrowful  stomach  into 
a  powerful  Es-dur.'* 

This  speech  pleased  the  old  organist;  he  in- 
vited his  unexpected  guest  into  the  arbour, 
where  Violetta  placed  before  him  fresh  bread, 
delicious  milk  and  butter,  cherries,  and  per- 
fumed strawberries.  The  young  man  and  the 
starling  were  delighted;  both  master  and  bird 
ate,  drank,  and  chattered  as  though  for  a 
wager.  If  the  stranger  made  a  joke,  the  star- 
ling   repeated    it,    and    he    continually    cried: 

46 


MOZART 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


*'Hola!  Figaro,  attention!  Figaro,  attention!" 
In  an  hour's  time  the  inhabitants  of  the 
little  white  house  were  as  confidential  with 
their  guest  as  though  they  had  lived  for  years 
together;  the  old  organist  even  commenced  to 
relate  something  about  Master  Bach,  and  found 
a  very  attentive  listener  in  the  young  musical 
student.  At  last  the  old  man's  heart  opened 
entirely  in  the  society  of  this  merry,  childlike, 
simple  man,  and  he  told  him  mysteriously— as 
though  he  were  disclosing  to  him  the  existence 
of  the  most  precious  treasure— his  favourite 
story  of  Haydn's  shake  of  the  hand.  The 
young  man  listened  to  his  discourse  with  a 
quiet  smile,  but  when  the  old  man  had  finished 
he  related  to  him  in  return,  with  moist  eyes, 
and  low,  trembling  voice,  that  Father  Haydn 
had  once  given  him  a  kiss.  The  old  organist 
would  not  believe  this,  although  the  starling 
screamed  like  mad:  ''The  truth,  although  it 
were  a  crime!"— As  they  took  leave  of  each 
other  by  moonlight,  it  occurred  for  the  first 
time  to  the  true-hearted  old  man  to  inquire  his 
guest's  name. 

''I  am  called  Amadeus,"  answered  he,  **and 
I  shall  often  return." 

''Do,"  said  the  organist,  laughing,  and  shak- 
ing his  hand ;  ' '  then  you  shall  see  my  collection 

=47  


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


of  music— a  room  full  of  real  treasures,  I  tell 
you!'*  Violetta  presented  the  handsome  Ama- 
deus  with  an  exquisite  bunch  of  roses; 
he  kissed  her  for  it  as  lightly  as  a  butterfly 
kisses  a  charming  flower ;  but  the  starling  cried : 
*' Farewell,  we  are  going;  farewell,  farewell, 
till  we  meet  again!"  And  so  they  departed. 
They  heard  for  a  long  time  a  pleasing  duet 
made  by  a  male  voice  mingling  with  that  of  a 
bird. 

Scarcely  four  days  had  elapsed  when  the 
gay  musical  student  leaped  over  the  hedge 
again,  but  this  time  he  was  neither  exhausted 
nor  fatigued,  but  bold  and  fresh.  Violetta  was 
rejoiced  to  see  him,  and,  whilst  he  without  any 
ceremony  threw  his  arms  around  her  neck  and 
kissed  her  upon  her  beautiful  mouth,  the  star- 
ling cried:  ''He  who  has  found  a  love!"  How 
delighted  the  old  organist  was  to  see  the  young 
man  again!  He  drew  him  with  a  mysterious 
air  into  his  little  room,  opened  an  old  cup- 
board, and  Amadeus  beheld  with  astonishment 
a  treasure,  consisting  of  the  most  valuable 
works  of  Sebastian  Bach,  Handel,  Palestrina, 
Pergolesi,  and  others.  A  few  of  Father 
Haydn's  masses  were  there  as  well.  Each 
work  was  neatly  bound,  and  the  name  and  date 
of  the  birth  of  each  composer  were  printed  in 

=r48  


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


bright  golden  letters  on  the  back  of  each 
volume.  Amadeus  turned  over  their  leaves 
with  a  really  blissful  face,  and  spoke  under- 
standingly  of  every  thing,  to  the  organist's 
great  amazement.  The  old  man  took  off  his 
little  cap,  laid  his  hands  upon  the  young  man's 
shoulders,  gave  him  a  deep,  long  look,  and  said : 
''You  have  indeed  a  clear,  beautiful  soul,  and 
you  will  become  a  great  master  yourself,  if  God 
protect  you!"  Then  he  clasped  him  in  his 
arms,  and  kissed  him  upon  both  cheeks ;  but  the 
starling  cried:  ''Long  live  Sarastro!"  Ama- 
deus played,  and  the  old  spinet  trembled  under 
his  hands,  while,  with  strangely  beautiful 
melodies,  he  wafted  sweet  dreams  to  the  souls  of 
Violetta  and  her  father.  When  evening  came, 
they  went  into  the  garden,  and  the  young  man 
ran  with  Violetta  for  a  wager;  they  threw 
flowers  and  rose-leaves  at  each  other,  and 
sported  like  two  children  with  the  shrewd  star- 
ling. Amadeus  told  Violetta  how  much  he 
loved  the  little  bird,  and  that  he  would  never 
be  separated  from  him.  His  dead  mother  had 
raised  it,  had  given  it  to  him,  and  now  it  was 
his  constant  companion.  He  placed  himself  at 
night  upon  his  master's  pillow,  tucked  his  tiny 
head  under  his  wing,  and  slept  there  until  the 
morning. 

r=49 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


The  summer  passed  away,  but  there  was  not 
a  week  in  which  Amadeus  did  not  visit  them, 
either  to  sing  with  Violetta— for  she  sang  all 
kinds  of  old  airs  with  a  lovely  uncultivated 
voice— or  to  talk  with  the  old  organist  about 
Sebastian  Bach  and  Father  Haydn.  Once 
Violetta 's  father  said:  **Do  tell  me  what  you 
think  of  Mozart,  whose  works  are  causing  so 
much  excitement  now.  I  should  like  to  hear 
something  about  him.'' 

The  young  man  replied:  *'I  know  him  very 
intimately— in  fact,  as  well  as  I  do  myself: 
Mozart  is  a  very  merry,  careless  fellow,  who 
resembles  myself  in  appearance,  but  has  a  more 
serious  air  when  he  handles  his  haton  or  his 
pen.  He  is  as  happy  as  a  child,  and  always 
tries  to  do  his  best;  his  soul  revels  in  a  sea  of 
sweet  tones  that  enrapture  him;  the  world 
smiles  upon  him,  and  his  heart  is  the  gayest  and 
most  thoughtless  one  in  the  world.  He  is  fond 
of  flowers  and  butterflies,  likes  wine,  but  pre- 
fers a  lovely  maiden's  face  to  aught  beside. 
You  would  like  him,  I  assure  you,  for  he  has 
not  a  single  enemy;  he  has  a  wife  whom  he 
loves  indescribably,  and  she  deserves  his  love, 
for  she  has  few  faults;  however  she  is  jeal- 
ous and  that  sometimes  torments  the  heedless 
Mozart. 

—  sn  


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


The  organist  smilingly  shook  his  head,  but 
Amadeus  took  a  hasty  leave,  although  he  had 
been  there  scarcely  an  hour,  and  the  sun  was 
still  high  in  the  heavens.  ''Don  Juan,  a  new 
opera  of  Mozart's,  is  to  be  brought  out  this  eve- 
ning, ' '  he  said,  ' '  and  I  am  anxious  to  know  how 
it  will  please  the  people;  I  am  of  rather  a  rest- 
less nature,  and  to-day  I  am  quite  as  much 
excited  as  Mozart  himself;  to-morrow  I  will 
tell  you  all  about  it."  So  speedily  did  he  de- 
part that  he  forgot  to  kiss  Violetta,  and  left  her 
bunch  of  flowers  lying  unheeded ;  even  the  star- 
ling had  scarcely  time  to  call  out :  * '  Quick  feet, 
lively  courage!"  The  maiden  drooped  her 
little  head  all  day;  whether  on  account  of  the 
forgotten  kiss  or  the  faded  bouquet,  I  cannot 
exactly  say. 

The  next  day  flew  by;  there  was  no  Ama- 
deus to  be  seen;  the  sun  sank  deeper  and 
deeper,  and  the  yellow  leaves  fell  from  the 
trees.  The  old  organist  sat  in  his  arm-chair, 
buried  in  the  contemplation  of  his  musical 
treasures;  Violetta  hummed — but  it  was  very 
low,  for  her  heart  was  not  light.  Suddenly 
there  was  a  knocking  at  the  window;  a  well- 
known  voice  begged  admittance;  Violetta 
sprang  up  hastily,  accustomed  to  his  eccen- 
tricities; she  opened  the  window,  and  the  Vien- 

-51  == 


UV8ICAL  SKETCHES 


nese  musical  student  leaped  into  the  room. 
**Dear  papa,"  he  said,  with  a  face  like  a  spring 
morning,  '* Mozart  has  succeeded  very  well; 
Don  Juan  is  quite  passable ;  moreover,  he  greets 
you,  and  has  sent  you  something  that  I  will 
immediately  bring  in  to  you.  But  first  accept 
this  little  souvenir  from  me!"— He  placed  a 
few  sheets,  neatly  sewed  together,  in  his  old 
friend's  hands.  It  was  an  Ave  verum.  Vio- 
letta  received  also  a  pretty  song,  with  the  in- 
scription: *'To  my  Violet."  It  commenced 
thus: 

,,@m  35etld§ett  auf  bet  SBiefe  ftanb/'  * 
The  young  girl  was  delighted;  the  old  man, 
however,  looked  over  the  pages  with  his  serious 
black  eyes,  then  arose,  went  quietly  to  his 
music-closet,  and  laid  the  sheets  carefully  be- 
tween Bach  and  Handel.  The  young  man's 
cheerful  countenance  quivered  with  silent 
emotion;  the  organist  took  both  his  hands,  and 
said:  *'You  know  better  than  any  one  else 
what  this  place  signifies!"  Then  Amadeus's 
blue  eyes  filled  with  tears;  he  seized  the  old 
man's  hand  with  passionate  impetuosity,  and 
exclaimed:  "Father,  I  am  Mozart  myself! 
Yes,  I  am  the  wild,  merry  Mozart,  to  whom  you 

*  '  *  A  violet  on  the  meadow  grew. '  * 

=  52  


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


have  given  a  greater,  deeper,  more  heartfelt  joy 
by  this  simple  mark  of  honour,  than  can  ever 
the  loud  applause  of  the  world!  I  thank  you. 
But  I  have  also  another  surprise  for  you ! "  He 
threw  himself  like  a  child  on  the  breast  of  the 
old  man,  clasped  him  in  his  arms,  and  then  ran 
out  of  the  door.  A  moment  later  his  beaming 
face  reappeared;  the  starling  cried:  **God  save 
Sarastro!"  Then  entered— Father  Haydn.  A 
flash  of  delight  from  the  old  organist's  eyes 
and  a  trembling  movement  of  his  lips  was  his 
only  greeting  for  his  king  and  master.  His 
body  could  not  support  so  much  emotion;  and, 
whilst  Haydn  with  his  smile  full  of  soul  ex- 
tended his  hand,  and  said:  ''God  greet  you!" 
Mozart  bent  anxiously  over  him;  but  Violetta 
threw  herself  at  her  father's  feet— for  God  had 
beckoned  to  him,  and  his  spirit  had  soared  into 
the  realm  of  eternal  heavenly  harmonies. 

Many,  many  years  have  elapsed  since  then; 
Father  Haydn  has  long  since  led  the  glorious 
choir  of  angels  above;  Mozart  also  slumbers  the 
deep  sleep  of  eternity;  these  and  many  other 
stars  have  disappeared  from  our  earth,  but  the 
little  village  still  peeps  as  peacefully  and 
quietly  from  its  bright  foliage,  the  linden-trees 
bloom  as  before,  and  in  the  organist's  dwelling 
resides  an  old  woman.     It  is  the  once  beautiful, 

-53  


MUSICAL  SKETCHES: 


charming  Violetta.  She  never  married,  and 
lives  a  dream-life  in  her  recollections.  If  you 
wish  to  visit  her,  you  need  only  question  her 
about  the  great  master  Mozart;  then  her  eyes 
become  animated,  and  a  flush  of  youth  seems 
to  pass  over  her  features.  She  will  talk  of  him 
for  hours,  and  will  perhaps  show  you  a  little 
sheet  of  music,  made  yellow  by  the  hand  of 
time,  upon  which  stands  written,  in  a  careless 
handwriting : 

,,(Bxn  S5etld§en  aitf  bex  2Biefe  ftanb" 


54: 


Midsummer  Night's  Dream 

**  Nodded  smilingly  to  me   the  queen, 
Smiling  she  rode  by; 
Did  it  augur  my  new  love,  I  ween, 
Or  that  /  should  die?" 

AWONDROUSLY  mild  summer  night 
spread  its  perfumed  veil  over  the  lux- 
uriant earth;  the  leaves  of  the  trees  whispered 
to  each  other;  the  moon  shone  brightly  and 
enchantingly ;  its  glance  prevented  the  flowers 
from  sleeping,  and  its  smile  seemed  to  per- 
fectly illumine  a  magnificent  linden-tree  that 
stood  in  the  midst  of  a  large,  gloomy  garden. 
At  the  linden-tree's  foot  there  lay  an  immense 
grass-plot,  soft  as  velvet;  many  tall  trees  had 
grown  around  it  in  their  serious  beauty,  and 
many  flower-eyes  of  all  colours  peeped  out  from 
their  low  bushes  upon  it.  The  white  walls  of  a 
stately  house  gleamed  through  the  green  foli- 
age. It  was  midnight.  The  birds  were  sleep- 
ing, as  well  as  the  butterflies;  here  and  there  a 
firefly,  who  had  tarried  long  near  the  fair  rose- 
queen,  was  still  to  be  seen  stumbling,  flutter- 
ing,   and   resting    for    a   moment    upon    every 

^55 


MVSICAL  SKETCHES 


flower's  heart  that  jestingly  called  to  him  as  he 
half  dreaming  hastened  homewards. 

A  light,  quick  step  echoed  through  the  silent 
night,  and  a  slender  young  man,  with  a 
thoughtful  brow  and  wondrously  beaming  eyes, 
advanced  towards  the  linden-tree.  The  blos- 
soms breathed  sweeter  perfumes  when  he  ap- 
proached, and  the  leaves  hastily  drew  close  to 
each  other,  so  as  not  to  prevent  the  seeking 
moon's  eye  from  beholding  her  favourite.  Ths 
young  man  looked  up  earnestly  to  the  still,  blue 
sky,  and  many  serious  questions  asked  he  of  the 
stars,  that  were  shining  down  upon  him;  he 
gazed  pensively  upon  the  dark  shadows  of  the 
trees,  that  extended  themselves  sombre  and 
dusky  over  the  flower-beds,  and  sighed  deeply. 
Then  there  resounded  suddenly  from  the  dis- 
tance a  gentle  tinkling,  like  that  produced  by 
an  eolian  harp  when  kissed  by  the  balmy 
zephyr,  and  a  light  slowly  arose  from  the  dark, 
green  grass.  Silvery,  shining,  shapeless  mists 
arose,  and  the  delicious  perfume  of  lilies  and 
roses  filled  the  air.  Countless  little  creatures, 
shaped  like  dragon-flies— that,  it  is  said,  live 
but  a  single  night— fluttered  by  on  their  light- 
green  wings,  and  formed  a  dense  circle  around 
the  turf  carpet.  The  soft  tinkling  became 
louder  and  louder;  a  stream  of  the  most  in- 

=  56 


MENDKLSBOHN 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


toxicating  melodies,  now  gay,  now  sad,  now 
seductive,  now  bewildering,  undulated  nearer. 
A  profusion  of  rose-leaves  descended,  and  from 
each  leaf  a  fairy-like  being,  with  delicate  form 
of  surpassing  beauty,  enveloped  in  a  dazzling 
veil,  with  sparkling  eyes  and  long  golden  hair, 
arose.  Every  movement  of  these  enchanting 
creatures  was  like  the  sweetest  music,  every 
breath  a  tone;  and,  as  they  sported  in  the 
merry  dance,  the  heart  of  the  trembling  child 
of  man  to  whom  so  wonderful  a  sight  was 
granted,  swelled  with  rapture. 

The  handsome  countenance  of  the  listener 
brightened;  a  superhuman  light  shone  from  his 
eyes,  and  a  happy  smile  played  about  his 
mouth.  The  sweet  dreams  of  his  childhood 
awoke  anew,  the  lovely  fancies  of  his  youthful 
mind  floated  in  gay  procession  by  him,  and  the 
golden  legendary  world  arose  again  in  all  its 
splendour  and  glory.  Then  was  heard  the  sil- 
very sound  of  a  chime  of  bells ;  a  slight  rustling 
made  him  glance  upwards,  and  a  throne— made 
of  the  calyx  of  a  pure  white  lily— floated  down ; 
numberless  airy  forms  fluttered  around  it,  half 
hidden  in  the  cups  of  various  flowers;  and  the 
whole  aerial  structure  was  suspended  by  two 
moonbeams,  which  looked  like  delicate  silver 
chains,  as  they  rocked  to  and  fro.     The  blades 

—  67  


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


of  grass  longingly  extended  their  tiny  green 
arms,  in  order  gently  to  receive  the  fairy-seat; 
whilst  the  singular  turf-guardians  flapped 
their  wings  in  welcome  to  the  queen.  The 
sovereign  forsook  her  throne  and  touched  the 
green  carpet  with  the  end  of  her  tiny  foot. 
Nothing  can  be  imagined  more  lovely,  more 
charming,  than  this  elfin  princess— for  thus  was 
she  called  in  the  realm  of  spirits;  she  wore  a 
crown  of  flower-tears,  and  they  sparkled  with 
more  splendour  than  do  the  most  costly  bril- 
liants. The  queen's  veil  was  of  light,  her  eye 
a  heaven,  her  smile  bliss.  She  raised  her  fair 
hand,  inclined  her  head,  and  the  dance  began. 
What  magical  floating  and  soaring,  what  sweet, 
tender  entwining,  inclining,  and  flying!  The 
queen,  with  lustrous  wings,  fluttered  amidst 
them  all,  singing  and  smiling.  The  flowers 
near  and  far  opened;  every  calyx  breathed  per- 
fume and  music;  it  was  indeed  a  wondrous 
scene ! 

The  solitary  child  of  mortals,  as  he  stood  by 
the  linden-tree,  felt  deeply  the  beauty  of  this 
magic  night,  and  a  gentle  **Ah!"  escaped  his 
lips,  forced  from  them  by  the  excess  of  his  de- 
light. Suddenly,  as  though  a  gust  of  wind  had 
blown  upon  the  frail  forms,  terrified  and  be- 
wildered, they  whirled  and  reeled  asunder;  but 

z=58 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


the  queen,  with  serious  and  sorrowful  glance, 
beckoned  to  her  companions,  and  pointed  out 
to  them  the  linden-tree,  upon  which  the  moon 
had  spun  a  thousand  gossamer-like  threads. 
The  elves  enveloped  themselves  in  their  veils, 
and  approached  nearer  to  the  quivering  youth, 
who  had  wound  his  right  arm  about  the  tree,  as 
if  seeking  of  it  protection  from  the  mighty 
power  of  magic.  The  queen  floated  near. 
"Thou  art  consecrated  to  death,"  (so  sang 
she,)  *'thou  beloved,  richly  blest  child  of  earth; 
thou  art  inevitably ,  inexorably,  dedicated  to 
death!  No  mortal  dare  gaze  upon  the  spirit- 
world  unpunished!  Thou  must  die!  Thy  bril- 
liant life  will  be  extinguished  as  suddenly, 
strangely,  and  gently  as  that  of  a  vanished 
star,  and  like  it  will  rise  anew.  Thou  art 
chosen  from  thousands  of  thy  race;  the  lofty 
goddess  Music,  before  whose  glory  the  spirits  of 
heaven  and  earth  bow,  has  immortalized  thee 
with  her  embrace.  The  star  of  fortune  shone 
upon  thy  cradle;  they  called  thee  Felix:  thy 
destiny  lies  pictured  in  this  name!  Thou  wilt 
be  happy,  fortunate,  loved,  admired,  adored, 
and  at  last,  0  thrice  blessed  child  of  earth,  thou 
wilt  depart  in  the  midst  of  thy  fame,  of  thy 
glory,  and  of  thy  power— and  a  pure,  beloved 
being  will  precede  thee,  in  order  to  receive  thy 

=  59  == 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


departing  soul  with  a  holy  kiss  at  thy  dying 
hour!  Give  praise  to  thy  fate,  0  beloved 
mortal!'' 

The  tinkling  words  died  away;  the  queen 
bent  her  head,  and  inclined  it  so  low  that  a 
flower-tear  from  her  diminutive  crown  fell  upon 
the  white  brow  of  the  dreamer;  then,  gazing 
upon  him  with  her  sweetest  smile,  she  whis- 
pered, as  she  departed:  ''Good  night!"  The 
elves  slipped  by  him:  they  all  threw  playfully 
a  token  of  remembrance  upon  the  breast  of  the 
half-unconscious  one ;  one,  a  small  pin  made  of 
a  moonbeam;  another,  a  tiny  moss-rose-bud; 
another,  a  lily  of  the  valley;  another,  a  veil 
woven  from  the  red  of  evening;  and  as  they 
disappeared,  half  breathing,  half  singing,  they 
bade  him :  ' '  Good  night,  good  night ! ' '  Throne, 
queen,  fair  dancers,  perfume,  light,  and  music, 
all  vanished;  the  young  man  fell  senseless. 

When  his  eyes  reopened,  the  sun  shone 
brightly,  and,  as  he  kissed  his  lofty  brow,  he 
wondered  at  the  pale  cheeks  of  his  favourite. 
The  birds  sang;  the  flowers  bathed  themselves 
in  the  dew,  and  glanced  at  him  bashfully  and 
timidly;  the  leaves  of  the  old  trees  had  many 
secrets  to  confide  to  each  other ;  the  fickle  butter- 
flies rushed  to  their  pet  blossoms,  in  order  to 
entice  from  their  lips,  by  dint  of  kissing  and 

-60  = 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


caressing,  the  secrets  of  the  past  night;  a  few 
old  black  beetles  ran  buzzing  about,  lifting  up 
the  slender  blades  of  grass;  they  found  much 
to  put  in  order.  The  old  gardener  noticed  on 
this  morning,  with  a  shake  of  his  head,  a  singular 
whitish  ring  that  encircled  the  grass-plot:  it 
was  made  of  the  dead  bodies  of  the  tiny,  fragile, 
winged  guardians  of  the  elfin  realm. 

Felix  wandered  through  the  garden,  with  a 
countenance  upon  which  the  highest  and  purest 
inspiration  reigned;  he  hastened  to  his  quiet 
chamber,  and  hid  himself  from  the  eyes  of  his 
loved  ones.  When  he  returned  to  the  family 
circle,  he  placed,  with  a  significant  smile,  a  few 
sheets  of  music  in  the  hand  of  his  beloved  eldest 
sister,  his  fellow-artist  and  friend.  ** Fanny,'* 
said  he,  ''these  sheets  will  relate  to  you  a  Mid- 
summer Night's  Dream  of  your  Felix;  listen  to 
it  indulgently." 

The  words  of  the  elfin  queen  were  fulfilled: 
the  radiant,  honoured,  beloved  master— he  who 
dreamed  the  sweetest,  most  wondrous  Midsum- 
mer Night's  Dream  in  magical  tones— has  for- 
saken our  poor  earth !  Not  a  leaf  had  faded  in 
the  laurel  wreath  that  encircled  his  youthful 
brow;  he  closed  his  bright  eyes  in  the  full  con- 
sciousness of  his  power,  in  the  untroubled  splen- 
dour of  his  fame.     And  we?     Alas!    We  knelt 

—  61—  


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


by  the  coffin  of  the  beloved  one,  we  gazed  with 
bitter  tears  and  unconquerable  sorrow  upon  his 
quiet  countenance,  and  touched  for  the  last  time 
with  reverential  awe  the  passive  hand  that  knew 
no  rest  in  life— the  hand  that  had  created  and 
called  forth  so  much  that  was  great  and  mag- 
nificent !  How  soon  did  the  glorious  one  leave 
our  discordant,  earthly  sounds,  attracted  to  the 
radiant  home  of  harmony !  There  all  his  dreams 
have  become  blissful  realities— there  the  long- 
ings of  his  lofty  soul  are  stilled ! 

How  winter-like,  how  lonely  and  sad,  has  it 
become  over  night  upon  the  earth!  The  throne 
is  forsaken,  the  harp  has  grown  silent.  Weep- 
ing mourns  the  sublime  goddess  Music,  and 
thousands  upon  thousands  of  mortal  eyes  gaze 
inquiringly  upon  the  still,  lofty  heaven.  Alas! 
It  gives  no  answer  to  the  timid,  bitter  **  Where- 
fore?" 


62 


Stabat  Mater  Dolorosa 

"T  TEDERE  Napoli  e  poi  morire ! ' '  The  truth 
V  of  these  words  must  have  penetrated 
every  human  heart,  and  have  overwhelmed 
every  eye  to  whose  glances  the  splendour  of  the 
landscape  around  Naples  was  disclosed,  one 
glorious  October  morning  of  the  year  1735. 
There  lay  the  fay-like  city,  with  her  countless 
cupolas  and  towers,  over  which  hung  the  radiant 
golden  veil  of  the  morning's  red.  Here  arose 
the  high  cloud-enveloped  spire  of  the  mightiest 
of  all  domes,  the  peak  of  Vesuvius;  and  the 
stately  bay— it  rested  like  a  heavy,  golden, 
gigantic  drop  upon  the  proud  bosom  of  the 
earth,  shiningly  rocking  to  and  fro,  as  though 
it  had  fallen  from  the  waving  sea  of  light  above. 
A  warm,  reddish  vapour  tremblingly  surrounded 
the  myrtle  and  orange  groves ;  it  played  around 
the  slight  tendrils  of  the  vines  that  extended 
their  green  hands  affectionately  to  each  other; 
it  glided  with  graceful  movements  through  the 
neighbouring  gardens,  and  kissed  the  large 
flowers  and  creepers  that  covered   the  ground 

=63 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


like  a  many-coloured  net.  It  was  as  though 
God's  breath  floated  over  this  sweetest  spot  of 
his  earth,  and  as  if  here  alone  were  found 
eternal  peace,  bliss,  and  beauty. 

On  the  gentle  slope  of  a  blooming  hillock 
leaned  an  old  stone  crucifix,  with  the  sorrowing 
Madonna  at  its  foot ;  it  was  hidden  by  luxuriant 
bushes  of  magnificent  oleanders,  shadowed  by 
plane  and  olive  trees  and  half  overgrown  by 
lovely  magnolias  and  pretty  vines.  Perchance 
some  strange  destiny  had  carried  this  group 
thither,  and  pious  faith  had  sought  to  protect 
the  treasure  from  destruction  when  it  placed  it 
in  this  quiet  asylum;  for  the  workmanship  was 
of  striking  and  remarkable  beauty,  and  would 
have  merited  a  place  in  the  proudest  church. 
The  figures,  which  were  of  the  size  of  life, 
showed  that  a  master  hand  had  transformed 
the  hard  stone  into  a  pliable  mass  and  wonder- 
fully endowed  it  with  soul  and  animation.  It 
was  the  victorious  defender  of  the  faith  whose 
form  hung  on  the  cross  above— not  the  tortured 
mortal;  the  noble  features  wore  a  holy  and 
peaceful  aspect;  the  beautiful  body  rested  in 
the  unconquerable  rigidity  of  death;  no  trace 
of  struggling  or  of  pain  remained.  But  Mary, 
the  Mater  dolorosa— what  a  picture!  A  glo- 
rious figure,  bent,  but  not  prostrated,  by  the 

—  64  =:= 


-  MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


weight  of  grief;  a  wondrous  countenance,  upon 
which  the  most  excessive  sorrow  and  never-end- 
ing anguish  lay;  tear-drops  hung  heavily  upon 
the  eyelashes,  and  around  the  beautiful  mouth 
quivered  an  expression  of  inconsolable  misery. 
The  fresh  green  leaves  had  compassionately 
clung  to  the  garments  of  the  sufferer,  and  bright 
flowers  had  sprouted  forth  close  to  the  body  of 
the  crucified  One,  and  gently  covered  his 
wounds.  Seldom  did  a  pious  wanderer  discover 
this  image;  seldom  bowed  a  knee  before  this 
cross. 

On  the  October  morning  described  above,  it 
chanced  that  a  young  man  of  lofty  form,  with 
a  pale  face,  and  with  dark  but  sad  eyes,  threw 
himself  before  the  holy  image.  Deeply  sighing, 
he  looked  up  to  the  crucified  One.  He  beheld 
the  heavenly  peace  of  the  great  dead,  and  a 
feeling  of  fervent  devotion  thrilled  through 
him;  he  gazed  upon  the  angelic  features  of 
Mary,  contemplated  the  nameless  grief  depicted 
upon  her  countenance,  and  trembled  at  the  as- 
pect of  such  boundless  anguish.  An  infinite 
compassion  penetrated  his  soul;  it  seemed  to 
him  as  though  he  must  forcibly  withdraw  the 
daggers  that  were  piercing  the  tortured  mother 's 
breast;  it  seemed  to  him  as  though  the  hard 
stony  tears  clinging  to  the  eyelashes  called  to 

-65 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


him  for  mercy.  His  own  sorrow,  which  he  had 
carried  to  her  feet,  vanished  before  the  gigantic 
greatness  of  this  silent  wretchedness;  his  own 
complainings  were  arrested  as  he  humbly  bowed 
his  head.  Then  a  sweet,  clear  Ave  Maria  re- 
sounded through  the  air,  sung  by  two  lovely 
female  voices:  two  sisters— whose  sick  mother 
the  Madonna  had  graciously  restored  to  health 
—were  approaching  the  Queen  of  Heaven,  and 
were  bringing  to  her  their  daily  offering  of 
fresh  flowers.  They  were  two  beautiful  maidens ; 
one  with  a  full  rounded  figure,  haughty  looks, 
and  glowing  cheeks;  the  other  a  lovely  blonde, 
with  black  eyes  and  soft  delicate  features.  They 
laid  their  perfumed  wreaths  at  the  foot  of  the 
crucifix,  prayed  softly,  and  withdrew.  The 
blonde  maiden  turned  her  head  once  more,  in 
order  to  cast  a  stolen  glance  upon  the  solitary 
praying  one. 

He  now  looked  upwards,  and  said,  in  a  low 
voice:  ''Madonna,  have  pity  upon  me!  I  am 
alone,  quite  alone,  in  this  beautiful  world,  and 
I  suffer !  Give  me  a  noble  heart,  that  may  love 
me  and  heal  the  pains  of  my  diseased  breast!" 
Then  it  was  as  though  a  veil  had  been  rent  from 
before  his  imploring  eyes:  the  figure  of  Mary 
quivered;  a  flash  of  life  darted  over  the  coun- 
tenance of  the  aifiicted  Mother,  and  the  stony 

-66  


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


mouth  breathed:  ''Bring  a  worthy  offering  to 
my  boundless  sorrows ;  take  these  fearful  motion- 
less tears  from  me,  soften  them  that  they  may 
gently  flow  and  ease  my  tortured  heart;  let  my 
stiffened  wounds  soothingly  bleed;  and  thy 
prayer  shall  be  granted ! ' ' 

When  the  stunned  one  recovered  the  clearness 
of  his  mind,  the  mid-day  sun  already  poured 
forth  his  glowing  rays,  and  all  living  objects  hid 
themselves  timidly  from  his  ardent,  scorching 
breath.  The  young  man  alone,  to  whom  new 
life  had  been  given,  did  not  heed  it;  his  cheeks 
burned,  his  eyes  sparkled,  and  a  happy  smile 
played  about  his  lips;  with  flying  steps  he 
hastened  back  to  Naples. 

On  the  following  day  the  fair  sisters  returned, 
and  sang  their  childlike  pious  Ave  Maria;  the 
silvery  clear  soprano  of  the  blonde  contrasted 
enchantingly  with  the  rich  contralto  voice  of 
the  charming  brunette.  They  again  found  the 
young  man  with  the  brown  locks  and  thought- 
ful brow  by  the  holy  image;  but  he  knelt  not 
before  the  cross ;  he  lay  on  the  slope  of  the  hill, 
allowing  his  inspired  glances  to  wander  to  and 
fro.  He  held  a  sheet  of  paper  in  his  hand,  and 
traced  curious  signs  upon  it  with  a  pencil.  His 
countenance  was  so  animated  whilst  thus  en- 
gaged that  the  pious  blonde,  Lauretta,  almost 

=  67 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


forgot  to  lay  her  bunch  of  roses  in  the  Madon- 
na's lap,  whilst  the  proud  Lucia  gazed  upon 
him  with  astonishment.  Lauretta^  as  they 
lingeringly  withdrew,  secretly  dropped  at  the 
feet  of  the  stranger  the  little  bunch  of  orange- 
blossoms  which  she  wore  upon  her  breast. 

These  three  beautiful  beings  saw  each  other 
daily  in  the  early  hours  of  the  morning;  never 
did  the  storms  nor  the  deceitful  rains  of  the 
winter  months  prevent  their  pilgrimage;  the 
glances  of  the  loving  Lauretta  grew  ever  more 
tender  and  ardent,  and  the  words  and  tones  of 
her  gentle  greeting  more  trembling  and  shy; 
the  rapture  depicted  in  the  features  of  the 
serious  man  waxed  ever  more  glorious. 

March  thus  approached,  that  wondrously 
lovely  month  in  Italy,  with  its  fresh  buds,  its 
bright  leaves,  and  its  mild  winds.  The  young 
man's  form,  despite  the  invigorating  breath  of 
the  spring,  dwindled  more  and  more  away;  his 
step  became  heavier,  his  cheeks  more  hollow;  a 
treacherous,  extremely  beautiful  colour  rested 
upon  them,  his  dark  eyes  glowed  with  an  un- 
earthly fire ;  but  Lauretta  did  not  perceive  this. 
One  day  he  inquired,  in  a  low  voice:  ''May  I 
venture  to  bring  you  on  the  morrow  a  song— a 
song  of  praise  to  the  Holy  Mother?  Will  you 
sing  it  for  me  with  your  beautiful  pure  voices? 

=68  = 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


The  Madonna  demanded  an  offering  from  me; 
she  has  promised  me  a  glorious  reward.  Oh, 
how  I  long  for  its  fulfilment !  Help  me,  help 
me  to  perform  my  vow:  chant  my  song  next 
Sunday  at  the  foot  of  this  crucifix,  and  be 
witnesses  of  the  miracle!"  Lucia  nodded 
assentingly  and  friendly  to  him,  but  Lauretta 
laid  her  trembling  hand  in  his,  and  from  the 
glorious  night  of  her  eyes  a  heavy  burning  tear 
fell  upon  it. 

It  was  the  sixteenth  of  March,  on  a  Sunday 
evening,  when  the  three  approached  once  more 
the  holy  image:  Lauretta  supported  the  totter- 
ing  steps  of  the  youth ;  a  wreath  of  violets  hung 
upon  her  arm.  The  crucifix  gazed  seriously 
upon  the  group.  The  exhausted  one  sank  upon 
his  knees,  elevated  his  waxen-pale  hands,  and 
cried,  passionately:  "Holy  Mother  of  Sorrows, 
accept  my  offering!" 

And  close  to  him  arose,  like  the  fragrant  va- 
pour of  a  sacrifice,  the  two  female  voices, 
strangely  pure,  fervent,  and  exalted ;  they  sang : 

**8tabat  Mater  dolorosa 
Juxta  Crucem   lacrymosa, 
Bum  pendebat  Filius.** 

Not  even  the  breath  of  a  zephyr  rustled  through 
the  leaves  of  the  trees ;  not  a  sound  was  heard ; 
a  holy  stillness  prevailed,  all  nature  was  silenced 

r=:69 


MV8ICAL  SKETCHES 


by  the  grandeur  and  true  holiness  of  this  melody. 
The  praying  one  seemed  lost  in  rapture.  With 
indescribable  emotion,  with  consuming  anxiety, 
with  feverish  expectation,  his  glances  were  fixed 
upon  the  features  of  Mary;  and  when  the 
words 

**Quis  est  homo,  qui  non  fleret, 
Matrem  Christi  si  videret 
In  tanto  supplicio?'* 

flowed  from  the  lips  of  the  inspired  singers,  be- 
hold! the  rigid  countenance  of  the  Mater  dolo- 
rosa trembled ;  the  unutterable  grief  vanished ; 
a  heavenly  emotion  cast  a  halo  around  the  divine 
mouth;  the  stony  tears  softened,  and  melted 
away;  the  wounds  of  the  dagger-pierced  breast 
bled ;  and  hot,  clear  drops  fell  upon  the  head  of 
the  young  man. 

Then  the  ever-gnawing,  violent  pains  of  his 
weak  body  ceased,  his  diseased  breast  heaved, 
he  drew  a  deep,  long  breath ;  a  wondrously  sweet 
lassitude  crept  over  him;  full  of  happiness,  he 
extended  his  arms— Lauretta  rushed  anxiously 
towards  him— a  smile  flitted  like  a  sunbeam 
over  the  sinking  one's  face— Giovanni  Battista 
Pergolesi  was  dead! 

The  wondrous  image  of  the  sorrowing  Mary 
has  long  since  crumbled  and  decayed;  jasmine 
and  aloe  bushes  cover  the  lonely  spot,  and  the 

-70  === 

\ 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


body  of  the  immortal  master  whose  believing 
soul  sang  the  ever-glorious  Stahat  Mater, 
crowned  with  glory,  rests  in  the  silent  cathedral 
of  Vescorato.  At  the  foot  of  yon  hillock,  on 
whose  declivity  the  crucifix  once  leaned,  lies  a 
grave,  so  woven  with  flowers  and  so  shadowed 
by  mournful  cypress-trees  that  it  is  scarcely 
visible.  It  conceals  the  pure  tenement  of  the 
loving  heart  that  the  Madonna  once  promised 
to  the  imploring  one— the  earthly  remains  of 
the  blonde  Lauretta. 


71 


The  Master's  Grave 

A  MOST  engaging  Swallow  had  built  her 
tiny  nest  under  the  roof  of  a  dreary,  grey 
house  in  a  large  city.  The  little  creature  was 
charming:  she  embraced  her  pretty  children  for 
hours  at  a  time;  flew  about,  as  though  for  a 
wager,  with  her  lively  black-eyed  mate;  happy 
and  free  from  care,  she  warbled  each  day  a 
morning  and  evening  song,  and  in  her  airy  hab- 
itation did  not  envy  the  king  of  the  birds,  the 
proud  eagle,  in  his  lofty  castle.  When  the  Swal- 
low, as  she  flitted  to  and  fro,  so  untiringly  called, 
*'Good  night,"  and  the  moon  in  the  heavens 
smiled  upon  her,  a  little  window  would  open, 
and  a  friendly  human  countenance,  with  hand- 
some though  melancholy  eyes,  would  look  out 
and  follow  long  the  chirping  Swallow.  A 
swallow's  song  possesses  peculiar  liveliness  and 
freshness;  did  all  sorrowing  ones  listen  to  its 
artless,  cordial  chirping,  many  a  human  heart 
would  be  lightened  of  its  cares!  It  is  probable 
that  the  little  bird's  quiet  observer  felt  this; 
for  when  he  would  leave  the  window,  his  eyes 
no   longer  looked  so   desponding,   and   a   faint 

:7a==  = 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


smile  would  often  play  about  his  lips.  After 
he  had  disappeared,  glorious,  rich  sounds  would 
ring  through  the  small  room  and  would  sally 
forth  into  the  silent,  reposing  world.  The  tones 
were  not,  however,  joyous ;  the  thoughtless  Swal- 
low felt  this,  and  could  not  rest  when  she  heard 
them,  filled  as  they  were  with  dark  longing 
and  deep  grief;  when  her  little  wings  grew 
weary,  she  would  carefully  slip  into  her  airy 
abode,  without  disturbing  the  slumber  of  her 
little  ones,  and  would  stretch  her  diminutive 
head,  ever  and  again,  out  of  her  nest,  and  direct 
her  tiny  eyes  towards  the  window,  behind  which 
a  faint  light  still  glimmered.  Then  the  har- 
monies stormed  and  rocked  ever  more  power- 
fully, more  pathetically— but  the  little  Swallow 
did  not  know  when  they  died  away;  for  it 
seemed  to  her  in  the  early  morning  as  though 
the  last  note  had  but  just  ceased. 

A  deep  stillness  reigned  in  the  chamber; 
through  the  entire  day  the  window  was  hung 
with  green,  and  the  little  bird  often  brushed  by 
it,  but  nothing  stirred  within.  Gladly  would 
she  have  questioned  the  beautiful  passion-flower 
— which  was  only  visible  at  night — about  the 
all-powerful  magician  of  sounds;  but  the  pas- 
sion-flower had  her  large  blue  eyes  ever  directed 
towards  the  interior  of  the  room,  where  sat  her 

=73  = 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


beloved  master:  she  but  seldom  cast  a  hasty 
glance  towards  the  outer  world.  Besides,  this 
flower  is  considered  among  birds  to  be  proud 
and  over-pious ;  sufficient  reason  for  the  Swallow 
to  cherish  a  slight  aversion  towards  this  mys- 
terious blossom, — for  little  Swallow,  with  her 
beautiful  eyes,  was  a  free-thinker. 

The  summer  faded  like  a  dream.  The  birds 
of  passage  prepared  themselves  for  their  long 
flight  to  warm,  happy,  sunny  lands;  the  young 
swallows  flew  around  the  house,  and  listened  to 
the  loved,  well-known  sounds  that  had  floated 
around  their  cradle.  Rough  winds  tore  off  and 
blew  away  the  dry  leaves  from  the  trees;  the 
last  flowers  sank  down  and  died.  The  little 
window  stood  wide  open,  despite  the  cool  even- 
ing, and  the  sublime  sounds  echoed  without; 
the  unknown  enchanter  sat  with  inclined  head 
at  his  piano,  and  his  delicate  white  fingers  slid 
almost  unconsciously  over  the  keys.  Around, 
papers  lay  scattered,  large  and  small,  covered 
with  notes.  The  little  Swallow,  filled  with  the 
sorrow  of  separation,  attracted  and  bewildered 
by  the  wondrous  tones,  forgot  all  her  timidity. 
She  flew  into  the  humble  room,  fluttered  around 
the  head  of  the  magician,  touched  his  noble 
brow  with  the  tip  of  her  wings,  and  reeled  at 
last— embarrassed  by  the  mild,  thankful  glances 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


of  his  eyes— upon  his  weary,  suffering  breast. 
She  felt  that  soft  hands  clasped  her,  that  a 
breath  touched  her,  and  that  gentle  lips  kissed 
her  tiny  head;  a  fresh  breeze  wafted  through 
the  window;  the  Swallow  awoke  from  her  sweet 
bewilderment,  and  whizzed,  with  a  cry  of  joy 
and  farewell,  high  into  the  air,  whilst  the  deep, 
longing  sigh  of  a  tormented  human  heart  fol- 
lowed her.  Throughout  her  journey,  she  talked 
with  her  children  and  with  her  mate  of  him  who 
had  held  her  in  his  hands,  of  him  who  had 
kissed  her — and  thought  of  the  heavenly  sounds 
by  night  and  by  day. 

When  the  lovely  spring  awoke,  the  swallows 
appeared,  and  sought  their  old  nests  with  loud 
cries  of  joy.  An  enchanting  May-day  saw  the 
return  of  our  little  Swallow.  The  narrow,  well- 
known  window  was  not  curtained ;  the  room  was 
empty,  and  the  passion-flower  stood  pale  and 
weary.  The  sun  appeared  to  find  endless  pleas- 
ure in  the  charmingly  decked  earth,  for  he 
went  slowly  and  resistingly  to  rest.  The  Swal- 
low, on  the  contrary,  could  scarcely  await  the 
Night.  At  last  she  came,  and  spread  her  dark 
veil  over  the  earth;  the  restless  little  bird  flut- 
tered around  and  listened.  In  vain!  no  sweet 
sounds  were  here  amid  the  silence;  the  window 
remained  firmly  closed.     The  next  morning,  the 

=  75     ■  === 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


Swallow  flew  to  the  passion-flower:  she  was 
pining  away,  sick  unto  death.  She  fanned  the 
wearied  one  with  her  wings;  softly  the  two 
whispered  together;  then  the  beautiful  flower 
bowed  her  head  and  fell  asleep.  The  Swallow 
gently  loosened  her  from  her  parched  stalk  and 
flew  far  away  with  her  to  the  quiet,  solitary 
'church-yard.  There  a  fresh  heap  of  turf 
gleamed  in  the  sunlight:  the  Swallow  laid  the 
flower  at  the  feet  of  her  master,  who  had  so 
faithfully  tended  her,  and  who  now  slumbered 
far  below,  and  then  returned  sorrowfully  and 
wearily  home. 

In  the  cool  of  the  evening  she  hastened  to  a 
charming  wood  close  by,  and  sought  her  friend, 
the  much-praised  songstress.  Blackbird.  The 
Blackbird  was  not  alone;  she  sat  upon  a  hand- 
some fir-tree,  and  a  Goldfinch  had  boldly  taken 
hi^i  place  beside  her.  A  Goldfinch  with  his  gay 
coat  is  quite  as  dangerous  for  a  lady  bird  as  is 
a  lieutenant  for  the  young  girl  of  to-day.  The 
Swallow,  however,  had  no  eyes  for  him:  serious, 
weighty  thoughts  filled  her  tiny  head.  Hastily 
greeting,  she  said  entreatingly  to  the  Blackbird 
—who  had  inclined  her  thick  head  as  coquettishly 
as  possible— ''My  love,  you  must  do  me  a  fa- 
vour.'' ''What  is  it?"  sang  the  Blackbird, 
rather  listlessly— for   the  interruption   did  not 

,,-r  =76 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


give  her  pleasure.  ''I  wish  to  arrange  an  even- 
ing concert/'  answered  the  Swallow,  mysteri- 
ously, ''and  you  must  sing  at  if  "Willingly, 
willingly ! ' '  replied  the  flattered  fair  one,  as  she 
attempted  a  trill  which  made  the  Goldfinch  al- 
most break  his  neck  with  rapture.  ''Has  King 
Eagle,"  said  she,  "or  perchance  the  handsome 
Prince  Falcon,  with  his  adjutant,  the  dangerous 
Count  Sparrow-hawk,  arrived?"  "No;  noth- 
ing of  the  kind, ' '  said  the  Swallow,  interrupting 
her  friend 's  speech ;  "  I  wish  to  give  a  beautiful 
slumber-serenade  at  the  last  resting-place  of  a 
beloved  master  who  is  dead ;  my  song  alone  ap- 
pears insufficient  to  me,  although  I  know  that 
he  liked  to  hear  my  chirping  when  he  lived;  so 
pray  let  me  have  the  assistance  of  your  voice, 
dear  Blackbird!"  The  singer  almost  fainted 
with  astonishment.  "What  presumption,"  she 
cried,  offended,  "to  think  that  I  would  expose 
my  voice  to  the  injurious  night  air  for  the  sake 
of  a  dead  musician !  No,  dear  friend,  you  can- 
not be  serious  when  you  demand  this  of  me,  the 
renowned  singer  of  the  forest.  I  must  reserve 
myself  for  the  morrow.  I  am  to  sing  at  the 
matinee  of  a  Raven  virtuoso,  who  performs,  as 
he  passes  through,  on  the  bill  harmonica;  in 
the  afternoon  an  extremely  interesting  fugitive 
Canary-bird,  who  has  broken  his  contract,  gives 

-77  = 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


a  concert ;  and  in  the  evening  there  is  a  musical 
entertainment  at  Madame  von  Magpie's." 

In  the  midst  of  this  chattering  the  Swallow 
hastened  away,  deeply  hurt.  She  went  to  the 
pretty,  capricious  Robin.  With  zealous  chirp- 
ing the  Swallow  made  her  request.  Robin  was 
very  much  occupied  and  very  absent-minded: 
she  was  expecting  an  admirer,  a  fascinating 
Greenfinch,  and  had  laid  all  kinds  of  delicious, 
delicate  seeds  upon  fresh  little  rose-leaves,  and 
placed  ready  for  drinking  the  cups  of  blue-bells, 
filled  with  dew.  Little  Swallow  waited  a  while, 
but  no  Greenfinch  came;  suddenly  Robin  be- 
came hoarse,  it  was  "impossible  for  her  to  sing;" 
she  pretended  to  be  very  ill,  slipped  into  her 
nest,  and  closed  her  eyes.  The  Swallow  sorrow- 
fully spread  her  wings  and  flew  through  the 
forest  towards  her  home.  On  her  way  she  be- 
held the  faithless  Greenfinch,  seated  upon  a  fine 
birch-tree  as  though  upon  a  throne,  and  beside 
him  was  perched  a  charming  Hedge-sparrow, 
with  whom  he  sang  and  trilled  incessantly. 
The  Swallow  nodded  with  her  little  head,  and 
wished  to  fly  by.  ''What  is  the  matter  with 
you,  dear  soul?"  cried  the  merry,  careless, 
green-coated  fellow.  ''You  look  quite  troubled; 
a  Swallow  with  a  sad  face  is  something  really 
unusual.     Speak,   speak ! ' '   And   little   Swallow 

■78  = 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


spoke.  *'We  will  sing  with  you,"  said  the 
Greenfinch,  quite  seriously,  when  she  had  con- 
cluded, '  *  We  will  sing  with  you,  I  promise  you. ' ' 
'^And  I  also,  in  the  name  of  all  my  sisters," 
cried  the  pretty  Hedge-sparrow. 

The  eyes  of  the  imploring  one  brightened. 
* '  Then  I  shall  have  indeed  a  splendid  chorus  for 
my  glorious  master  Franz!"  she  joyously  ex- 
claimed. *' Master  Franz!  Do  you  speak  of 
Jiimf"  screamed  the  Greenfinch,  as  he  threw 
his  outspread  wings  around  the  Swallow's  neck. 
**0h,  we  all  know  him!  It  was  he  who  so  lov- 
ingly nursed  my  sick  brother,  whose  leg  a 
wicked  boy  had  broken ;  it  was  he  who  liberated 
every  bird  from  the  nets  and  snares  of  artful 
man;  and  it  was  he  who  bought  my  beloved— 
I  mean  my  first  one— the  most  beautiful  blue- 
throated  warbler  in  the  world— from  the  hands 
of  a  barbarous  bird-seller,  by  means  of  the  last 
groschen  that  he  had  in  his  pocket,  and  then  he 
let  her  fly.  Yes,  all  the  birds  and  flowers 
knew  him,  the  dear  master;  how  often  did  he 
wander  through  the  wood,  humming  low,  won- 
drous melodies!"  **At  midnight,  then,  in  the 
church-yard ! ' '  whispered  quite  happy  the  Swal- 
low, and  flew  away. 

There  was  a  merry  scene  enacting  on  one  of 
the  last  trees  in  the  forest.     Cousin  Bullfinch 

-~79 


UVSICAL  SKETCHES 


held  his  school  there :  a  multitude  of  pretty  lit- 
tle birds  had  assembled  around  him;  he  himself, 
with  his  tiny  black  cap  and  little  red  waistcoat, 
sat  gravely  in  their  midst,  and  gazed  with  clear, 
friendly  eyes  upon  the  wild  young  people,  and 
related  all  sorts  of  droll  stories.  Swallow  told 
him  of  her  plans.  Cousin  Bullfinch  promised 
his  co-operation,  and  gave  her  a  kind  recom- 
mendation to  his  best  friend,  the  musical  director 
Woodpecker,  who  resided  a  few  trees  from  him. 
The  young  birds  also  wished  to  sing  for  the 
good  Master  Franz,  whom  they  all  asserted  they 
knew;  some,  from  hearing  their  fathers  and 
mothers  relate  stories  of  him;  others,  from  the 
descriptions  given  by  their  elder  brothers  and 
sisters.  Joyfully  the  Swallow  took  her  leave. 
We  will  not  disclose  what  took  place  at  the 
house  of  the  worthy  Woodpecker,  but  it  must 
have  been  something  pleasant,  for  the  little 
creature  returned  home  late,  beaming  with  joy 
and  speaking  only  with  her  eyes;  she  nodded 
to  her  dear  ones,  and,  after  a  short  repose,  flew 
towards  the  quiet  church-yard. 

The  obliging  moon  poured  her  most  dazzling 
silver  light  over  the  master's  grave.  It  was 
midnight;  far  and  near,  sounds  arose  from  all 
the  branches,  and  a  full  chorus  of  the  loveliest 
bird-voices    warbled    the    praise    of    the    dead 

=  80  = 


SCHUBERT 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


master,  the  quiet,  serious  singer,  the  stranger 
on  this  earth,  who  was  better  understood,  known, 
and  honoured  by  birds  and  flowers  than  by  men 
—the  praise  of  the  solitary,  weary  wanderer, 
Franz  Schubert.  The  faithful  Swallow  flut- 
tered around  the  mound  and  kissed  the  blades  of 
grass ;  a  Nightingale  rocked  herself  upon  the  rose- 
bush which  inclined  over  his  grave,  and  sang  en- 
chantingly;  she  was  the  favourite  pupil  of  the 
honest  musical  director  Woodpecker,  who  sat  at 
the  dead  master's  feet  and  zealously  beat  time. 
The  birds  sang  so  charmingly  that  the  moon 
and  the  dear  little  stars  listened;  all  the  flowers 
awoke ;  the  beetles  came  flying  near,  and  the  glow- 
worms formed  a  lustrous  circle  around  the  grave. 

Could  it  be  that  the  fresh,  happy  voices 
reached  the  dreams  of  him  who  slumbered  so 
quietly  below  ?  The  birds  believe  it ;  every  year, 
in  the  first  days  of  the  month  of  bliss— the 
gentle  May— at  the  quiet  hour  of  midnight, 
they  bring  the  first  spring  greeting  to  the  dead 
master  Franz;  and  in  the  last  days  of  the 
autumn,  when  the  merry  swallows  prepare  for 
their  distant  journey,  all  the  lovely  singers 
chant  to  him  their  farewell! 

And  so  his  grave  is  never  forsaken;  bright 
bird-  and  flower-eyes  watch  over  this  quiet, 
hallowed  spot. 

=81 


The  Cat's  Fugue 

IMAGINE  a  little  house,  half  hidden  in  dark- 
green  myrtle-bushes,  overgrown  with  grape- 
vines, and  surrounded  by  wild  roses  and 
orange-trees,  resting  upon  a  magnificent  couch 
—Naples,  the  queen  of  cities— and  with  the 
ever-laughing  Italian  sky  extended  above  it.  A 
scene  so  richly  coloured  is  too  captivating  for 
eyes  half  dazzled  by  snow  and  ice ;  we  place  our- 
selves, with  hearts  full  of  longing,  in  the  midst 
of  this  luxuriant  loveliness;  we  speak  of  the 
deep-blue  shining  heavens  as  if  we  felt  the  re- 
animating, intoxicating  kisses  of  the  sun,  until 
at  length  we  fancy  ourselves  gazing  upon  the 
strange,  enchanting  splendour  of  the  South. 

Study  long  this  lovely  picture,  and  then  turn 
your  eyes  towards  an  old,  carelessly  attired  man. 
He  is  seated  before  the  door  of  the  house,  gazing 
thoughtfully  into  the  distance.  An  orange-tree 
occasionally  lets  fall  its  odorous  blossoms;  he 
heeds  them  not;  the  rose-leaves  sportively  kiss 
his  head,  gay  butterflies  flutter  around  him ;  all 
in  vain ;  the  busy,  moving  life  about  him  attracts 
him  not.  Yet  passion  and  emotion  are  depicted 
,ft9. = 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


upon  his  dark,  nobly  chiselled  features,  and  his 
flashing  Italian  eyes  contrast  strangely  with  the 
Northern  snow  upon  his  head.  It  was  the  master 
Alessandro  Scarlatti.  A  harp  leaned  against 
his  chair,  and  before  it  a  large  black  cat  had 
seated  herself  with  an  indescribably  serious  air 
and  with  inimitable  dignity.  She  was  engaged 
in  allowing  the  tip  of  her  tail  (which,  like  her 
left  ear,  was  of  a  dazzling  white)  to  dance  gently 
over  the  strings,  by  which  singular  experiment 
the  strangest  sounds  were,  of  course,  produced. 
As  her  master  was  never  displeased  at  her  mus- 
ical studies,  she  abandoned  herself  to  them  every 
morning;  she  would  draw  the  tip  of  her  tail, 
with  the  drollest  gestures  and  leaps,  to  and  fro 
across  the  harp,  and  then,  overcome  with  emo- 
tion, would  sing  one  of  those  old  melancholy 
airs  peculiar  to  her  race,  which,  it  is  said,  are 
capable  of  softening  stones  and  driving  men 
mad. 

All  this  never  disturbed  Master  Scarlatti. 
On  the  contrary,  he  laughed  like  a  good-natured 
fellow  at  his  cat's  eccentricities.  In  the  even- 
ing the  cat  sat  in  a  corner  of  the  room,  with  a 
face  like  that  of  a  pathetic  alderman,  and  lis- 
tened to  the  playing  of  her  beloved  master  upon 
the  harp.  His  performance  must  have  been 
glorious,  for  all  the  little  birds  that  sang  in  the 

=  83  = 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


orange-trees  and  myrtle-bushes  came  flying  near 
in  order  to  hear  him,  and  the  roses  put  their 
little  heads  into  the  open  window  with  such 
haste  and  impatience  that  often  a  tender  little 
bud  would  lose  its  sweet  life.  The  master  looked 
like  the  strange  old  bard  Ossian,  although  not  so 
sorrow-stricken  nor  so  bowed  down  with  grief. 
Was  it,  then,  strange  that  the  sensitive  and 
unsophisticated  soul  of  a  cat,  who  wept  the  loss 
of  her  dead  beloved,  should  melt  into  melancholy 
tears  at  these  magical  sounds,  and  that  her  green 
eyes  should  overflow  as  did  those  of  the  King 
of  Thule?  When  Scarlatti  noticed  her  grief, 
he  would  draw  his  faithful  four-footed  com- 
panion towards  him,  and  kiss  and  stroke  her 
until  she  had  become  cheerful.  The  cat  led  a 
delightful  life  with  her  kind  master,  for  whom 
she  supplied  the  place  of  friend,  wife,  and  child, 
and  never  left  him  by  day  or  night.  When  the 
old  master  composed,  the  cat,  sitting  quite 
motionless  upon  his  left  shoulder,  would  move 
the  white  tip  of  her  tail  over  the  crown  of  his 
head;  but  when  Scarlatti's  thoughts  came  not 
quickly,  or  his  hand  grew  fatigued,  or  the  ink 
thickened,  he  would  become  angry  and  im- 
patient, and  would  throw  the  cat  from  him  to 
the  middle  of  the  room  by  an  involuntary  shrug 
of  his  shoulders.     She  did  not  take  this  rough 

-84  = 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


treatment  amiss,  but— as  acts  a  judicious  wife 
towards  her  scolding  husband— uncomplaining 
and  gentle,  returned  softly  from  her  sorrowful 
banishment,  and  remounted  to  her  forsaken 
throne  with  the  most  comfortable  purring. 
When  the  master  put  aside  his  pen  and  paper, 
the  cat  received  a  thousand  caressing  words,  be- 
sides many  things  delectable  to  her  palate. 

Each  day  would  have  been  a  holiday  for  her, 
had  it  not  been  for  Sundays.  Then  a  strange, 
wild  fellow  was  accustomed  to  take  up  his 
quarters  at  Master  Scarlatti's,  and  to  remain 
with  him  until  the  quiet  night  enveloped  in  her 
starry  mantle  the  weary  earth.  The  visitor  was 
a  favourite  pupil  of  the  master;  he  came  from 
far-distant  Germany,  and  was  called  Hasse.  A 
merry  youth  was  he;  he  delighted  to  torment 
the  worthy  cat  in  every  possible  manner :  at  one 
time  he  would  fasten  a  bell  to  her  tail,  at  an- 
other he  would  put  tiny  shoes  upon  her  feet; 
he  would  crown  her  with  roses,  or  scatter  orange- 
blossoms  over  her,  whose  strong  perfume  the 
cat's  nose  could  not  endure,  and  which  always 
made  her  sneeze  convulsively.  Besides  all  this, 
the  young  German  owned  a  wicked  little  dog; 
but  even  the  cat,  his  sworn  enemy,  was  forced 
to  confess  that  he  was  charming;  he  was  daz- 
zlingly  white,  agile  and  graceful,  with  sagacious 

—  85 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


brown  eyes.  This  spoiled  favourite  was  even 
wilder,  more  unrestrained,  and  less  considerate 
than  his  master;  with  their  teasing  the  cat 
fretted  herself  quite  thin. 

One  Sunday  the  cat  sprang  up  and  down  the 
harp,  wildly  extemporizing;  but  her  master  sat 
thoughtfully  gazing  into  the  distance,  as  I  have 
already  described.  And  see,  the  dreaded  visitor 
appeared  during  the  first  prelude.  Lightly 
and  quickly  trod  he;  very  handsome  was  he, 
with  his  flowing  brown  locks  and  rosy  cheeks; 
at  his  side  leaped  and  ran  his  little  companion. 
''Good  morning,  Master  Scarlatti,"  cried  he, 
with  cordial  tone  and  looks ;  ' '  how  pleased  I  am 
to  see  you!"  Scarlatti  nodded,  smiled— half 
friendly  at  the  greeting,  half  mockingly  at  the 
strange  German  accent  of  the  speaker — and 
replied:  ''To-day  I  am  a  bad  companion  and 
friend,  Hasse,  for  I  have  so  much  in  my  head; 
all  kinds  of  tones  buzz  confusedly  in  my  ears, 
and  still  I  cannot  form  a  single  melody  out  of 
them;  I  seek  something  peculiar  and  original, 
and,  not  finding  it,  I  am  in  despair !  I  beg  you, 
do  not  torment  me  with  your  pranks,  or  I  will 
twist  your  troublesome  little  dog's  neck!"— 
' '  Hold,  hold,  Master  Scarlatti, ' '  cried  his  visitor, 
"that  will  not  be  easy  to  do;  although  you  are 
in  a  bad  humour,  you  shall  not  touch  my  pet; 

r86  = 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


you  know  that  he  was  the  parting  gift  of  my 
dear  blonde  German  love,  whose  affection  and 
fidelity  accompany  me  as  does  my  little  True- 
love." 

The  master  turned  towards  the  young  man 
with  a  kind  smile,  and  gazed  upon  his  bright 
and  almost  childish  countenance.  The  youth 
stood  leaning  against  an  orange-tree,  surrounded 
by  Southern  splendour;  his  eyes  were  directed 
towards  the  heavens;  did  he  dream  of  his  be- 
loved home  in  beautiful  Germany,  with  her  clear 
sky,  bright  green  trees,  gay  flowers,  and  snow- 
crowned  mountains— or  did  his  longing  thoughts 
fly  to  the  fairest  of  all  flowers,  his  far-absent, 
constant  love?  The  clouds  that  had  gathered 
around  his  brow  soon  vanished,  as  Truelove 
sprang  upon  him  and  licked  his  hands.  The 
master  lost  himself  anew  in  deep  brooding,  and 
his  scholar  was  left  to  watch  over  the  peace  and 
order  of  the  household;  he  did  this  for  a  short 
time,  but,  after  delivering  an  admirable  sermon 
to  the  two  animals,  he  drew  a  small  wig  and  a 
pair  of  spectacles  out  of  his  pocket,  and  decked 
the  poor  cat  with  them,  despite  all  resistance. 
This  appeared  to  particularly  delight  Truelove ; 
he  barked  loudly,  and  danced  in  front  of  the 
despairing  sufferer  with  the  grace  and  agility 
of  a  tight-rope  dancer.     Scarlatti  looked  around 

-87  =^ 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


at  the  group,  and  smiled  to  himself,  whilst 
growling  at  Hasse,  who,  fearing  a  volcanic  out- 
break, enticed  the  animals  into  the  master's 
room.  The  old  piano  stood  open;  the  young 
man's  fingers  glided  over  the  keys  as  he  played 
a  frantic  witches'  dance.  Truelove  jumped  as 
though  mad;  at  last,  in  the  highest  spirits,  he 
sprang,  with  a  cry  of  joy,  upon  the  unhappy 
cat's  back,  clasping  her  neck  tightly  with  his 
forepaws.  Then  the  patience  of  the  cat's  soul 
vanished;  with  the  thought:  'Ho  be  or  not  to 
be,"  she  tore  around,  endeavoured  to  climb  the 
walls,  jumped,  foaming  and  screaming  with 
rage,  over  tables  and  chairs ;  the  master 's  papers 
flew  about  like  chaff;  clouds  of  dust  filled  the 
little  room.  Hasse  ran  after  them ;  his  calls,  his 
scolding,  were  of  no  avail.  The  cat,  exhausted, 
filled  with  shame  at  the  insult  offered  her,  and 
angry  at  her  own  weakness,  conceived  a  grand 
idea — ^she  would  call  her  master  to  her  assist- 
ance. She  sprang  upon  the  keys  of  the  piano, 
trod  upon  them,  coursed  wildly  up  and  down, 
and  gave  the  heart-rending  cry  of  her  race.  At 
the  first  singular  tone,  Truelove  fell  half  sense- 
less from  the  inspired  one's  back;  a  hollow  ac- 
cord announced  this  descent— the  cat's  specta- 
cles followed— the  wig  alone  remained.  The 
confused  tones  became  melody:  Hasse  listened; 

-88-  —  


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


but  the  old  master 's  face,  beaming  with  the  sun- 
shine of  passionate  delight,  peered  amid  the 
wild  roses  and  vine-leaves  into  the  open  win- 
dow, and  he  cried:  '*To  my  heart,  cat!  You 
have  found  it!''  Nearly  swooning,  she  rushed 
into  his  arms.  Scarlatti  immediately  dismissed 
his  madcap  scholar  until  the  following  day. 

When  the  young  man  appeared  before  his 
master  on  the  next  morning,  Scarlatti  showed 
him,  with  radiant  and  triumphant  looks,  a  sheet 
of  paper,  thickly  covered  with  notes,  over  which 
stood,  in  large  letters,  this  title:  "The  Cat's 
Fugue."*  Master  Scarlatti  seated  himself  at  the 
piano,  and  played ;  with  joyous  astonishment  the 
young  man  recognized  in  the  strange,  artistically 
interwoven  and  reconstructed  theme  the  singu- 
lar signal  of  distress  and  diabolical  melody  of 
the  wild  hunt  which  the  despairing  cat  had 
performed  upon  the  keys.  Master  and  scholar 
laughed  heartily  at  its  conclusion;  the  crowned 
cat,  however,  sat  upon  the  left  shoulder  of  her 
master,  who  asserted  to  the  day  of  his  death  that 
she  had  joined  in  the  laugh  like  a  human  being. 

Let  me  impart  to  you,  in  conclusion,  an  im- 
portant secret :  she  was  said  to  have  been  the 
great-great-grandaunt  of  the  sister-in-law  of 
the  niece  of  Hoffman's  celebrated  cat  Murr. 

89 


* 


Snowdrops 


**In  the  valley,  the  tiny  bells; 
Hear  the  rustling  of  the  brook; 
The  rushing  of  the  wind  it  tells, 
Dying  in  the  forest-nook.'* 

H.  V.  Chezy. 

IN  a  small,  quiet  island— the  Catholic  church- 
yard of  the  proud,  royal  city  of  Dresden— 
lies  a  hidden  but  holy  spot  for  those  believing 
souls  who  learn  to  bow  in  childlike  humility 
before  the  all-governing  power  of  sublime  Music. 
The  cupola  of  this  chapel  for  pious  pilgrims  is 
the  infinite  sky ;  the  stool  upon  which  they  kneel, 
a  simple  grey  stone;  the  saintly  image,  a  lyre, 
wreathed  with  stars;  and  in  their  prayer-book 
there  stand  written  only  these  words: 
Carl  Maria  von  Weber. 
Yes,  in  thus  peaceful  a  nook  rests  the  famed 
one.  There  slumbers  he,  in  dreamless  repose, 
after  many  a  hard  battle,  after  many  a  glorious 
victory.  Wounded  by  the  thorns  of  life,  he 
sang  his  swan's  song  far  away  from  his  beloved 
home— and  then  was  silent  forever.  The  world 
decorated  the  inanimate  form  with  laurel  and 

i90  ^= 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


laid  it  in  its  native  earth;  they  showered  upon 
the  dead  the  honours  they  had  denied  the  living. 
Many  a  bitter  tear  has  doubtless  flowed,  in 
gratitude,  repentance,  and  sorrow,  from  thou- 
sands upon  the  slumbering  one. 

It  seems  to  us  already  like  a  dream  that  the 
great  master  lived,  sang,  and  suffered  with  us, 
amidst  us,  and  near  to  us;  and  yet  the  number 
of  years  that  have  elapsed  since  that  happy 
time  are  so  few!  His  quiet  house  stood  in  a 
dark,  narrow  street  in  Dresden ;  the  magical 
melodies  and  sounds  which  filled  his  soul,  and 
which  will  be  praised  in  after-ages,  rang  forth 
from  a  little  flower-decked  window.  There,  in 
the  quiet  night,  would  listeners  congregate,  for- 
getting sleep  and  weariness,  and,  allowing  the 
refreshing  shower  of  tones  to  stream  down  upon 
their  thirsting  souls,  would  fervently  thank  him 
for  such  heavenly  solace.  The  love  of  a  faith- 
ful wife  was  ever  about  him,  boundless  affec- 
tion shone  upon  him  from  out  the  bright  eyes 
of  his  children;  but  their  touching,  self-sacri- 
ficing devotion  did  not  suffice  to  smooth  the 
rough  path  through  which  their  beloved  one 
wandered,  nor  to  avert  the  sharp  stings  which 
envy  and  malice  directed  towards  him.  How 
often  did  this  noble  heart  bleed !  When  spring 
arrived  and  gave  to  the  sombre  city  innumerable 

—  fti  • 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


charms;  when  all  nature  smiled  and  flowers 
arose  from  out  their  little  graves;  when  trees 
with  their  thousand  blossom-eyes  gazed  without 
blinking  into  the  beaming  countenance  of  the 
sun ;  a  simple  lily  of  the  valley,  a  bunch  of  vio- 
lets, charmed  and  elevated  anew  the  master's 
soul,  and  the  sweet  perfume  of  the  flowers  was 
embodied,  on  his  golden  lyre,  in  enchanting 
spring  melodies  and  the  lays  of  fays. 

Above  all  other  flowers  he  loved  Snowdrops, 
whose  delicate  blossoms  appear  silvery,  pure, 
and  unspotted  as  an  infant 's  soul !  Every  year, 
in  the  first  days  of  spring,  a  child  would  bring 
him  a  large  bunch  of  these,  his  white  favourites 
—a  pretty,  engaging  child,  the  little  daughter 
of  a  miller,  whose  mill  lay  in  the  beautiful 
Plauenschen  Grunde,  whither  the  master  often 
directed  his  lonely  walks.  The  little  girl  would 
never  accept  any  pay  for  her  bouquet;  but, 
softly  and  timidly,  she  would  say,  '*Ah,  play 
something  for  me!"  He  always  complied  with 
her  request,  and  secretly  rejoiced  at  the  silent 
happiness   of  the   listening  child. 

Years  thus  passed ;  one  day  the  master  noticed 
that  the  little  girl  had  grown  tall,  slender,  and 
beautiful— that  the  child  had  become  a  blooming 
maiden.  She  returned  in  the  following  spring; 
she    was    pale — indescribably    pale — and  death 

-92  


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


shone  forth  from  her  deeply-sunken  eyes.  She 
wept  bitterly  as  she  handed  to  the  honoured  one 
the  white  flowers;  and  he,  as  was  his  wont, 
played  for  her  sweet,  charming,  musical  fairy- 
tales. 

'  *  I  shall  not  return  next  spring,  *  ^  she  said, 
in  parting.  ''Farewell!  To-morrow  they  will 
weave  the  bridal  wreath  in  my  hair.'' 

"And  this  makes  you  sad,  dear  child?"  in- 
quired the  master,  and  strove  to  jest;  "I  think 
that  my  dear  little  girl  commences  also  to  relate 
fairy-tales  to  me,  for  a  fair  bride  seldom  weeps 
over  her  beautiful  green  bridal  garland!" 

"They  do  not  wed  me  to  my  true  love,"  sud- 
denly exclaimed  the  pale  one,  sobbing;  "alas,  a 
strange  man  leads  me  to  his  home !  My  beloved 
journeyed  away,  at  the  last  Christmas  holidays, 
far  away  into  the  wide  world,  without  leave- 
taking  or  parting  greeting;  how  can  I  be  joy- 
ous?" She  clasped  her  little  hands  together, 
and  an  expression  of  heart-rending  anguish  was 
imprinted  upon  her  charming  features. 

The  much-longed-for  spring  appeared;  the 
bells  chimed  in  the  valley ;  an  old  careworn  man, 
plainly  attired,  inquired  for  the  dwelling  of  the 
"musician  Weber."  On  being  shown  into 
Weber's  cosy  room,  he  greeted  him  with  a  sor- 
rowful smile,  and  gave  him  a  large  bouquet  of 

-93  = 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


delicate  snowdrops.  '*I  bring  you  the  last 
greeting  of  my  child"— the  old  man  faltered, 
with  difficulty;  ''yesterday  we  buried  our  Mar- 
garet. She  died  like  a  flower  nipped  by  the 
frost— alas,  and  died  so  willingly!  Love  had 
broken  her  heart ;  and  we,  wretched  parents,  are 
to  blame.  Oh,  had  we  but  suspected  that  she 
so  dearly  loved  the  handsome  journeyman  Con- 
rad, we  should  not  have  driven  him  out  into  the 
wide  world !  The  worthy  lad,  with  his  true, 
loving  heart,  was  too  poor  for  us;  the  rich  mil- 
ler, who  wished  to  wed  our  lovely  child,  pleased 
us  better!  Conrad's  love  was  timid,  and  as 
Margaret  looked  out  into  the  world  quietly, 
cheerfully,  guilelessly,  as  an  opening  rosebud, 
we  dared  to  tell  the  desponding  lover  that  our 
child  rejected  him— yes,  with  disdain— and  had 
promised  her  heart  and  hand  to  the  rich  suitor. 
Conrad  departed,  secretly,  proud,  and  yet  so 
miserable!  Endless  grief  entered  our  house — 
Margaret  commenced  to  droop,  and  we,  most 
unhappy,  did  then  read  her  heart! 

''She  only  confessed  upon  her  death-bed  how 
dearly  she  had  loved  the  departed  one;  despite 
her  violent,  secret  sorrow,  she  was  a  good,  pious, 
dutiful  wife  to  her  husband ;  never  did  she  men- 
tion her  beloved  one's  name;  but  we  found  this 
little  slip  of  paper  in  her  prayer-book.     Pray 

!  -94  


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


keep  it  in  remembrance  of  her !  You  often  have 
given  my  poor  child  much  pleasure:  she  could 
scarcely  await  the  arrival  of  the  first  snowdrops. 
Do  not  forget  poor  Margaret!''  The  hot  tears 
of  the  unhappy,  repentant  father  almost  stifled 
his  last  words. 

When  the  deeply-moved  master  found  himself 
alone,  he  thoughtfully  unfolded  the  little  sheet 
of  paper,  and  read  with  difficulty— for  the  hand- 
writing was  tremulous  and  half  effaced  by 
tears— 

**My  true  love  has  wandered  away;* 
All  things  are  so  sad  and  so  dreary! 
Perhaps  he  lies  in  the  cold  clay — 
And  I  am  so  woe-gone  and  weary! 
*' Gladly  to  the  church  I  would  have  gone, 

Though  false,  false  tongues  stood  at  the  door; 
Thus  kept  they  me  from  my  loved  one; 
Mine  eyes  with  tears  run  o'er,  evermore! 
"Thistles  and  thorns,  how  deep  they  sting! 

But  false,  false  tongues,  they  sting  still  more; 
Not  fire,  nor  coal,  such  wounds  can  bring, 
As  secret  love  in  my  heart's  core! 
"Alas!  why  could  not  I  my  parents  movet 
They  for  my  husband  made  me  take 
A  noble  man,  whom  I  can  never  love. 
Ah  me!  my  heart  will  surely  break! 

*„^em  6(^a^,bet  ift  auf  bte  2Banbexf(^aft  ^tn," 

a  well-known  German  popular  song,  set  to  music  by  Carl 

Maria  von  Weber. 

—  95  


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


** Loved  one!  sadly  I  beg  thee, 
In  memory  of  my  most  tender  love. 
In  the  deep,  cool  grave  to  lay  me, 
Beneath  the  shelter  of  a  shady  grove. '* 

The  master  did  not  forget  the  poor  Margaret ; 
the  song  of  the  true  love  who  had  wandered 
away  floated  through  his  brain.  One  evening 
his  fingers  glided  gently  over  the  keys,  and  a 
melody  arose,  soaring  up  to  the  sorrowful  words : 
it  was  wondrously  melancholy,  and  still  full  of 
childlike  simplicity.  Its  accompaniment  was 
formed  of  long-sustained  accords;  but  it  seemed 
as  though  a  thousand  tear-drops  trembled  in  the 
tones,  and  the  anxious  love-sighs  of  a  tormented 
human  heart  powerfully  penetrated  through 
the  harmonies. 

Thus  a  new  spring  flower  sprang  forth  from 
the  inexhaustible,  fertile  soul  of  the  master, 
and  he  laid  it  upon  the  solitary  mound  of  her 
who  had  died  so  young. 

When  a  sadness  full  of  old  memories  steals 
upon  you,  then  sing  this  little,  plaintive  song; 
at  the  sound  of  the  strange,  soft  accords  of 
the  simple  ballad,  melancholy  yearning  and  old 
long-dormant  sorrows  will  melt  away,  dissolving 
in  a  soothing  flood  of  tears ! 

When  your  souFs  eyes  rest  admiringly  upon 
the  fresh  flower-wreath  of  the  immortal  musical 

=  96  = 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


compositions  which  beamingly  surround  the  glo- 
rious master's  portrait— when  the  proud,  won- 
drous flowers  ^^Euryanthe/'  ^^Oheron/'  the  ever 
youthful  rose  '^Freischiitz/'  the  fair,  smiling 
lily  of  the  valley  ''Preciosa/'  the  countless  blos- 
soms of  his  songs  and  other  charming  buds 
dazzle  and  charm  you— then  forget  not  the  little 
pale  Snowdrop,  that  sounds  so  lovely,  and  which 
so  timidly  conceals  itself  behind  the  other  lux- 
uriant flower-forms.  Greet  it  with  heart  and 
lips,  and  thank  the  dear  master  for  his  charming 
gift!  For,  truly,  this  Snowdrop,  this  tender, 
little,  sad  song  of  the  true  love  who  had  wan- 
dered far  away,  is  a  tiny,  glittering  dew-drop 
upon  the  most  beautiful  leaf  of  the  golden 
laurel  wreath  of  the  unforgotten  one. 


97 


The  Playmates 

UNDER  the  glowing  enchanting  sky  of  Italy 
a  May-day  possesses  a  magical  charm  that 
we  children  of  the  North  can  only  imagine  in 
our  dreams.  The  earth  laughs  and  beams  in 
the  gayest  garb,  the  sun  gazes  longingly  down- 
wards, and  the  whole  air  is  filled  with  perfume. 
In  the  midst  of  this  luxuriant  nature  every 
human  heart  expands  and  rejoices;  a  cold  face, 
weary  of  life,  is  as  seldom  seen  there  as  are 
frost-pictures. 

So  much  the  more  striking  was,  therefore,  the 
appearance  of  a  boy  who  was  sitting  solitary  one 
May  morning  of  the  year  1793,  on  the  sea-shore ; 
he  had  turned  his  back  upon  the  beautiful  city 
of  Genoa,  which,  like  a  bride  beaming  with  hap- 
piness, rests  upon  the  bosom  of  the  proud  sea, 
and  gazed  fixedly  upon  the  glittering  immeasur- 
able surface  of  the  water.  The  child  was  about 
ten  years  old,  delicately  formed,  with  a  refined, 
pale  face,  dark  hair,  and  the  strangest,  the 
blackest  eyes  in   the  world.     Their  constantly 

-flft  = 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


varying  expression  almost  made  one  feel  uncom- 
fortable— one  moment  flashing  proudly,  tri- 
umphantly, full  of  fire,  and  the  next  sad  unto 
death. 

A  clear,  sweet  child's  voice  interrupted  the 
youthful  dreamer 's  gloomy  meditation ;  a  charm- 
ing little  girl  came  running  along,  and  threw 
herself  into  his  arms,  exclaiming:  ''Naughty 
Nicolo,  where  have  you  been  the  whole  weary 
afternoon?  I  have  been  seeking  you  every- 
where!" Then  she  kissed  him  fondly,  gazed 
at  him  excitedly  with  her  large  brown  eyes,  and 
finally  scattered  before  him  from  her  little  white 
apron  a  multitude  of  flowers— wild  roses,  twigs 
of  myrtle,  and  orange-blossoms. 

Nicolo  put  his  arm  around  the  little  prattler, 
smiled  almost  joyously,  stroked  her  jet-black 
locks,  and  said,  softly:  "I  have  slipped  away 
from  my  father,  Gianetta !  I  wished  to  dream 
a  while  quietly  by  the  side  of  the  beautiful  clear 
mirror  of  the  sea;  you  well  know  this  is  your 
playmate's  favourite  spot!'' 

Gianetta  did  not  respond,  but  commenced 
eagerly  to  scold  at  the  bad  father  of  her  young 
friend.  ''He  grants  you  no  rest,  by  night  nor 
day,"  she  cried;  "he  will  bring  you  to  your 
grave  yet.  My  mother  always  tells  me:  *Your 
Nicolo  is  not  strong  and  vigorous ;  his  mad  violin- 

.       -99  == 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


playing  consumes  his  soul,  and  his  father  de- 
stroys his  body.'     She  is  certainly  right!" 

**Do  not  believe  that/'  Nicolo  answered, 
gravely;  *'I  shall  not  die,  I  cannot  die,  for  I 
must  first  become  a  great  man.  I  am  not  weak ; 
look  here!"  And  he  arose  to  his  full  height; 
his  form  seemed  to  grow,  his  eyes  burned  with 
the  wildest  fire,  a  singular  smile  trembled  on  his 
lips;  he  suddenly  raised  Gianetta  from  the 
ground,  and  held  her  with  a  firm  grasp  over  the 
watery  deep  at  his  feet.  The  girl  did  not  become 
pale ;  she  only  sighed  softly  when  Nicolo  placed 
her  upon  the  earth;  she  did  not  even  utter  a 
word,  she  merely  gave  him  a  timid  side-glance. 
She  soon  regained  her  old  charming  ease,  talked 
and  sang;  Nicolo  listened  patiently  to  all;  she 
spoke  of  her  thousand  childish  plans,  of  her 
flowers  and  turtle-doves;  if,  by  chance,  he  lost 
himself,  at  times,  in  melancholy  reflection,  dur- 
ing her  lovely  prattle,  a  kiss  from  the  child's 
lips  or  a  touch  from  her  tiny  hand  would  arouse 
him,  and  then  she  would  quiver  with  joy  and 
look  indescribably  lovely. 

So  they  sat  together  by  the  sea-shore;  the 
deep-blue  sky  extended  itself  like  an  arch  above 
them ;  sunshine  and  lustre  encircled  their  heads ; 
the  boy's  brow  was  serious  and  full  of  care, 
whilst  the  little  girl's  face  resembled  the  spring. 

=1=100 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


When  it  grew  dark,  they  wended  their  way 
homeward  arm  in  arm;  they  wandered  through 
many  wide  streets,  until  at  last  they  turned  the 
corner  of  a  little  side  one,  at  the  end  of  which 
stood  two  houses,  thickly  covered  with  grape- 
vines; Gianetta  dwelt  in  one,  Nicolo  in  the  one 
opposite.  The  sombre  countenance  of  a  harsh, 
stern  father  awaited  the  boy ;  Gianetta 's  mother 
was  standing  at  her  door,  anxiously  watching 
for  the  return  of  her  wild  daughter ;  she  tenderly 
kissed  her.  The  children  said:  *'Good  night!'* 
and  parted. 

Nicolo,  with  a  deep  sigh,  entered  his  tiny  soli- 
tary chamber.  He  hastily  opened  the  lowly 
window;  then  he  took  from  out  a  little  box — 
shaped  like  a  coffin— an  old  violin,  contemplated 
it  with  an  expression  of  the  most  passionate 
tenderness,  and  commenced  to  play  upon  it. 
The  pure,  clear,  strangely  moving  tones  flew  out 
into  the  silent  night ;  they  floated  and  soared  up 
and  down  the  narrow  room,  so  that  the  walls 
seemed  to  tremble  and  quake.  Scarcely  had 
the  first  note  arisen  when  an  unusually  large 
spider,  splendidly  marked  with  a  cross,  crept 
from  the  thick  vines  that  grew  about  the  win- 
dow, and  slipped  into  the  tiny  room.  ''Little 
Silver-Cross,  welcome!"  said  Nicolo,  softly, 
and  laid  his  hand  on  the  window-sill ;  the  spider 

—101 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


ran  hastily  upon  it,  and  the  boy  placed  her  upon 
the  head  of  his  violin,  where  she  hung  on  firmly 
with  her  little  feet,  and  remained  stiff  and 
motionless,  listening  to  the  sea  of  tones  as  they 
swelled  above  her.  The  boy  played  until  his 
arm  was  wearied;  his  eyelids  commenced  to 
close,  and  the  morning,  enveloped  in  her  light 
pink  veil,  peeped  into  the  room.  Then  he  laid 
aside  his  beloved  violin;  the  spider  became 
reanimated,  and  crept  through  Nicolo's  white 
hand,  as  though  wishing  to  thank  him.  He  car- 
ried her  to  the  window,  where  she  speedily  dis- 
appeared in  the  luxuriant  foliage  of  the  vines. 
The  boy  followed  her  with  his  eyes  for  a  long 
time;  a  feeling  of  disconsolate  solitude  crept 
over  him— a  feeling  which  overpowered  himi 
every  night  when  little  Silver-Cross,  this  sin- 
gular listener  and  companion  of  the  dark  years 
of  his  childhood,  had  hastened  away. 

Nicolo  dearly  loved  the  faithful  little  crea- 
ture ;  the  first  tones  of  his  violin  drew  her  to  his 
side,  and  it  was  not  until  the  last  one  had  died 
away  that  she  awoke  from  the  sweet  lethargy, 
the  wondrous  intoxicating  dreams,  into  which 
they  lulled  her.  Often,  when  Nicolo  sat  imag- 
ining the  fulfilment  of  his  ambitious  hopes,  he 
would  mechanically  touch  the  strings  of  his 
violin;  then  little  Silver-Cross  would  softly  ap- 

-102 


PAGANINI 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


proach,  and  the  boy  would  feel  her  touch  like  a 
hasty  kiss.  He  would  close  his  eyes,  and  forget 
his  solitude— forget  that  no  one  loved  him. 
His  father  was  a  stern  master ;  his  gentle  mother 
was  dead ;  the  boys  of  his  own  age  avoided  him ; 
only  the  little  Gianetta  played  with  him  and 
kissed  him,  and  Nicolo's  heart  was  divided  be- 
tween the  beloved  girl  and  his  strange  window- 
friend.  Gianetta,  however,  could  not  endure 
spiders;  she  would  say,  timorously:  ''They  are 
witches!"  The  spider  seemed  to  feel  Gianetta 's 
dislike,  and  never  came  in  when  the  child  was 
there;  but  if  Nicolo  drew  near  to  the  window 
with  his  violin,  and  gave  a  stolen  look  without, 
he  would  always  perceive  the  mute  listener 
hanging  motionless  upon  a  vine-leaf.  Gianetta 
would  sit  in  a  corner  of  his  room,  breathlessly 
listening  for  hours  to  his  wondrous  playing,  but 
when  his  arm  sank  exhausted  and  the  tones  died 
away,  then  she  would  entreat  Nicolo  to  talk  to 
her.  Not  only  did  he  relate  to  the  listening 
child  wild  fairy-tales,  which  made  her  shudder, 
but  all  the  dreams  of  his  own  burning  heart,  all 
the  plans  of  his  high-aspiring  soul,  were  con- 
fided to  the  silent,  faithful  bosom  of  the  charming 
girl ;  and  she  would  press  his  feverishly  hot  hand 
and  gaze  at  him  with  eyes  filled  with  sympathy. 
When  he  told  her  of  the  famous  German  master 

=103  = 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


Mozart— how  he  had  written  grand  concertos 
when  only  six  years  old,  and  how  he  shone  as  a 
star  in  the  heaven  of  music— his  cheeks  would 
burn,  he  would  tremble  with  excitement,  and 
scalding  tears  of  indignation  would  stream  from 
his  eyes.  **See,  Gianetta,"  he  would  say,  with 
a  bitter  smile,  ''what  a  wretched  bungler  I  am 
beside  him!**  And  the  girl  had  not  the  power 
to  console  him. 

One  day  Nicolo  was  obliged  to  play  the  most 
monotonous  exercises  under  his  father's  super- 
vision, whilst  suffering  the  bitterest  inward  tor- 
ments. His  hands  were  weak,  his  brow  glowed ; 
all  the  strength,  all  the  life  of  his  body  seemed 
to  have  passed  into  his  eyes ;  they  shone  wonder- 
fully. All  at  once  he  heard  the  voice  of  Gianetta 's 
mother;  she  called  him  by  name,  anxiously 
and  hastily.  Nicolo  hurried  to  her.  Gianetta 
had  been  suddenly  taken  ill ;  a  burning  fever 
had  seized  her.  He  entered.  She  looked  long 
and  earnestly  at  her  dearest  playmate,  her 
friend;  he  understood  her  glance,  and  brought 
his  violin.  Grief  stormed  and  raged  within  his 
heart.  ** Gianetta,  a  sleeping-song  for  you!" 
he  exclaimed,  wildly.  She  smiled.  Then  the 
charmed  violin  sang  the  most  enrapturing,  the 
strangest  and  sweetest,  of  all  sleeping-songs. 
As  he  ended,  Gianetta  raised  herself  from  her 

=  104:  = 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


couch  and  called  Nicolo;  he  threw  himself  into 
her  arms.  ''Thanks,  my  dearest,"  she  whis- 
pered, softly;  ''Nicolo,  I  shall  slumber  sweetly! 
You,  however,  will  not  rest ;  you  will  beam  upon 
earth,  a  clear  star,  surpassing  every  thing  else 
in  brightness.  Travel  far,  far  away  from  here ! 
Think  of  me  and  of  my  words !"  The  beautiful 
child  inclined  her  little  head,  and  died. 

Nicolo  remained  by  the  beloved  corpse  the 
night  through;  the  following  day  he  ran  about 
half  frenzied.  When  he  returned  to  his  home, 
his  dark,  quiet  room  filled  him  with  terror ;  from 
his  window  he  could  look  directly  into  Gianetta's 
little  chamber.  The  child  lay  upon  the  bier, 
adorned  with  flowers— almost  buried  in  them— 
surrounded  by  lighted  torches,  and  looking 
lovely  as  an  angel.  A  monk  knelt  by  the  side 
of  the  coffin,  and  prayed  for  the  pure  young 
soul  that  had  forsaken  its  beautiful  tenement 
so  soon.  "Farewell,  thou  lovely  one,"  softly 
said  the  mourning  boy,  as  the  hot  tears  rolled 
over  his  pale  cheeks:  "I  am  going  far  away,  as 
far — ah,  as  far  as  I  can !  For  what  is  there  t^ 
retain  me — me,  the  lonely,  unloved  one?"  And 
he  fell  upon  his  knees  and  sobbed  convulsively. 

At  that  moment  he  felt  a  gentle,  singular 
touch  upon  his  hand;  he  started;  little  Silver- 
Cross  crept  towards  him.     *'It  is  you,  mute— 

ins 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES. 


alas,  now  solitary— companion  of  my  life  !"  cried 
Nicolo.  A  ray  of  joy  glided  over  his  counte- 
nance, as  he  thoughtfully  contemplated  the 
faithful  creature.  At  last  he  started  up,  and 
exclaimed,  pressing  his  violin  passionately  to 
his  breast :  ' '  One  more  parting  greeting  to 
Gianetta,  then  out  into  the  world  with  you, 
mighty,  heavenly  beloved  of  my  heart ! ' '  Then 
the  chords  sang  more  wondrously,  more  myste- 
riously than  ever:  tones  that  were  exquisitely 
beautiful,  although  tremulous  with  sorrow, 
floated  over  to  the  slumbering  Gianetta;  the 
dead  one  seemed  to  smile;  the  lovely  flowers 
quivered;  the  flame  of  the  torches  trembled; 
the  praying  monk  let  his  folded  hands  sink, 
whilst  magical,  strange  dreams  passed  over  him. 

When  the  morning  sun  looked  into  the  tiny 
room  with  his  fiery  eyes,  he  found  a  half-faint- 
ing boy  lying  on  the  ground,  with  his  violin  in 
his  arms;  on  the  strings  of  the  violin  hung, 
firmly  clinging,  little  Silver-Cross,  who  was 
dead. 

I  wonder  if  the  prediction  of  the  lovely  Gia- 
netta was  fulfilled  ?  The  boy 's  name  was  Nicolo 
Paganini.     Have  you  ever  heard  of  him? 


rl06i 


A  Meeting 


**A11  on  the  heath  a  little  boy 

Spied  a  red  rose,  rosy  as  morn, 
So  sweet  and  fresh,  and  full  of  joy, 

A  redder  rose  was  never  born: 
To  see  it  nigh,  he  quickly  sped. 
The  tiny,  blushing  rose  so  red." 

Goethe. 

BEAUTIFUL  old  Strasburg  had  probably 
not  worn  so  lovely  a  bunch  of  blossoms  upon 
her  breast  for  many  a  long  day  as  she  did  on 
the  12th  of  May,  1767.  The  gardens  lay  like  a 
wreath  around  the  town ;  everywhere  buds,  and 
young  untouched  green,  sprung  forth.  The 
lofty  cathedrals  looked  more  proudly  than  usual 
out  into  the  blessed  land;  the  billows  of  the 
Khine  rose  like  a  giant's  breast  swelling  with 
bounding  life  and  the  desire  of  mighty  deeds; 
the  clear  111  rushed  with  headlong  haste  into 
those  rustling,  majestic  waves,  and  the  villages, 
half  buried  under  white  cherry-blossoms,  poured 
forth  the  chimes  of  their  simple  Sunday  bells, 
sounding  half  like  devotion  and  half  like  joy. 
On  this  very  morning  a  young  man,  about 

=107  ==== 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


twenty  years  old,  sauntered  leisurely  out  of  one 
of  the  gates  of  the  city,  cheerfully  humming  the 
melody  of  an  old  French  song,  the  tender  love- 
lay  of  Henry  the  Fourth: 

*  *  Oh,    charmante    Gabrielle. '  * 

The  singer's  face  was  delicate  and  rosy;  his 
well-shaped  figure,  the  grace  of  his  carriage,  and 
a  certain  ease  of  manner,  gave  him  an  agreeable 
appearance.  His  brow  and  eyes  were  remark- 
able—the one  full  of  fire  and  enthusiasm,  the 
other  full  of  thought.  The  joyous  wanderer 
had  arrived  with  a  friend,  the  evening  before, 
from  Basel,  and  they  were  to  journey  towards 
Paris  in  twelve  hours'  time.  His  name  was 
Andre  Modeste  Gretry.  His  companion  wished 
to  rest  for  half  a  day  at  the  house  of  an  old  aunt 
in  Strasburg;  and,  as  the  lively  Gretry  found 
a  tete-d-tete  with  fresh,  young  nature  more 
inviting  than  the  society  of  an  aged,  rather 
prosy  lady,  he  concluded  to  dream  away  the 
Sunday  in  the  neighbourhood  of  the  old  city. 
Gretry  was  a  musician,  and,  like  all  such  odd 
creatures,  loved  to  dream. 

Born  at  Liege,  in  Belgium,  tenderly  beloved 
by  his  parents,  song  and  music  had  surrounded 
him  from  his  earliest  youth.  His  father,  the 
first  violin  at  St.  Martin's,  used  to  play  to  the 

=108  = 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


six-months-old  child  all  kinds  of  melodies,  which 
made  it  kick  and  crow  with  delight;  and  its 
mother  would  sing  it  to  sleep  with  her  lovely- 
voice.  When  he  was  but  six  years  old,  they 
granted  the  boy's  request  to  be  allowed  to  take 
music-lessons:  they  became  the  happiness  of  his 
young  life.  As  he  grew  older,  this  defective 
instruction  no  longer  satisfied  him ;  he  wished  to 
study  composition.  They  gave  him  an  excellent 
teacher,  Renekin,  under  whose  direction  the 
boy's  talent  was  rapidly  developed.  Andre 
Gretry  evinced  so  much  industry,  understood  so 
easily,  and  was  so  grateful,  that  his  teacher 
called  the  hours  which  he  passed  with  this  pupil 
his  time  of  recreation.  Renekin  took  care  that 
Andre  should  hear  as  much  as  possible ;  he  visited 
assiduously  with  him  all  the  musical  masses,  as 
well  as  concerts,  and  pointed  out  to  him  the 
beauties  or  defects  in  their  rendering.  At  this 
time  some  Italian  church-singers  came  to  Liege; 
their  performances  made  a  deep  impression 
upon  the  susceptible  boy.  From  them  he  first 
learned  to  appreciate  the  glorious  composition 
of  Pergolesi,  Galuppi,  Palestrina,  and  Lotti. 
On  listening  to  these  master-works  he  longed  to 
create  something  himself.  He  intensely  desired 
to  become  a  great  musician ;  and,  in  his  childish 
prayers  of  thanks  to  God  and  the  Holy  Virgin, 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


he  never  neglected  to  implore  the  fulfilment  of 
his  ardent  wish. 

On  the  day  of  his  first  communion,  when  he 
entered  his  parents'  room,  his  gentle  mother 
said  to  him,  whilst  embracing  him :  ' '  If  you  have 
any  very  heart-felt  wish,  my  son,  impart  it  con- 
fidingly to  the  mighty  Queen  of  Heaven ;  to-day 
she  grants  the  wishes  of  all  good  children  who 
pray  to  her  with  humility."  And  as  the  hand- 
some, pale  boy  knelt  in  the  church,  his  dark  eyes 
sought  the  image  of  the  Blessed  One  in  fervent 
devotion,  and  he  exclaimed,  with  his  whole 
heart:  "Oh,  let  me  become  a  great  musician!" 
Then  the  full  chime  of  bells  played,  and  the 
voices  of  the  angels  seemed  to  mingle  with  them, 
promising  assent;  the  child's  heart  palpitated 
with  joy.  In  violent  emotion,  he  drew  nearer, 
closer,  to  the  image  of  the  Queen  of  Heaven ;  a 
hollow  sound  was  heard— a  cry  of  terror  arose; 
a  heavy  decayed  beam  fell  from  the  belfry  into 
the  church,  close  to  the  stunned  boy.  Andre 
sank  insensible.  They  carried  him  with  loud 
lamentations  to  his  home;  hot  tears  fell  from 
his  parents'  eyes  upon  his  brow:  they  thought 
him  dead.  He  suddenly  opened  his  eyes,  smiled 
joyously  upon  his  dear  ones,  and  said:  ''Did 
you  see  how  the  Madonna  protected  me  from 
death?     She    loosened    her    blue    mantle    and 

-110  = 


GRETRY 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


waved  it  over  my  shoulders!  She  has  listened 
to  my  prayer.  Have  patience  with  me:  I  shall 
become  a  good  musician ! ' ' 

When  eighteen  years  old,  Gretry,  gay  and 
full  of  hope,  aided  by  the  admirers  of  his  talent, 
journeyed  over  the  Alps  into  the  land  of  song— 
into  glorious  Italy;  and  there  the  flower  of  his 
genius  slowly  unfolded  its  glittering  leaves. 
Holy,  serious  Rome  became  his  second  home; 
and  Casali  instructed  him  in  composition. 
Gretry  studied  with  true,  fiery  ardour;  intro- 
duced by  his  celebrated  teacher  into  musical 
circles,  he  won  all  hearts  by  his  irresistible 
amiability. 

More  than  one  charming  woman  sought  by 
enchanting  arts  to  fetter  the  interesting 
stranger;  but  his  candid  soul,  his  pure  mind, 
and  a  certain  inconstancy  in  his  whole  nature, 
preserved  him  happily  from  all  narrow  bond- 
age, from  all  the  dangers  that  threatened  his 
youth  and  future.  It  is  true  that  here  and 
there  a  pair  of  handsome  eyes  touched  the 
susceptible  youth,  it  is  true  that  now  and  then 
he  kissed  a  lovely,  rosy  mouth;  but  this  merely 
resembled  the  sporting  of  a  butterfly;  he  was 
too  restless  and  too  occupied  to  ever  allow  a 
deeper  inclination  to  take  root  in  his  heart.  At 
this    rich,    poetic    period  of   his    life,  his    first 

=111 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


important  compositions  were  written — two 
charming  Intermezzos,  which  equally  enchanted 
musicians  and  laymen.  Now  his  wildly  beating 
heart  drew  him  forcibly  towards  Paris— towards 
that  liveliest  of  all  cities,  which  he  had  chosen 
as  the  theatre  of  his  actions.  He  took  leave  of 
la  hella  Italia,  and  journeyed,  in  company  with 
a  French  painter,  through  Switzerland  towards 
Strasburg,  where  we  have  just  found  him  in  full 
enjoyment  of  the  lovely  spring  landscape.  He 
revelled  in  the  beautiful  day,  and  did  not  hasten 
his  solitary  walk.  At  one  time  he  would  throw 
himself  upon  the  grass,  under  a  blooming  tree, 
and  gaze  smiling  into  the  blue  sky;  he  would 
peep  through  his  hand  out  into  the  distance; 
he  would  stoop  down  and  look  upon  the  inverted 
sky ;  he  nodded  to  all  the  church-goers,  and  sang 
or  hummed  incessantly.  His  soul  resembled  an 
eolian  harp,  from  which  the  breath  of  every 
thought  called  forth  a  melody.  Suddenly  he 
heard  the  rustling  of  a  dress,  and  hasty  steps : 

*' Light  as  a  fairy  footstep — ** 

a  young  girl  ran  by  him,  chasing  a  gayly  va- 
riegated, remarkably  beautiful  butterfly.  She 
was  scarcely  fifteen  years  old,  and  her  figure 
was  yet  childlike.  Her  short,  white  dress  flut- 
tered about  the  tiniest  of  feet ;  her  round  straw 

-112  ^= 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


hat  had  fallen  oif,  and  was  only  held  by  its  blue 
ribbons,  which  were  wound  around  her  neck; 
her  thick  brown  hair  hung  in  heavy  plaits;  her 
lovely  face  glowed,  her  eyes  sparkled,  and  she 
wore  a  bunch  of  violets  upon  her  Ireast.  She 
cried  out  with  delight  when  she  approached  the 
butterfly;  she  sprang,  she  almost  flew,  in  order 
to  overtake  him.  She  scarcely  glanced  at  the 
young  man.  He,  however,  stood  and  gazed,  and 
thought  that  he  had  never  beheld  so  attractive 
a  being.  He  followed  her  almost  mechanically 
—with  his  feet,  with  his  eyes,  even  with  his 
heart.  Suddenly  he  uttered  a  cry  of  alarm— 
the  young  girl  had  fallen.  In  an  instant  he  was 
at  her  side.  She  had  injured  her  left  foot,  but 
she  showed  no  sadness,  no  pain— quite  the 
reverse,  for  she  raised  her  head  and  looked  upon 
her  unexpected  assistant  with  joyful  eyes,  as 
though  some  great  happiness  had  befallen  her. 
**I  have  caught  him,  the  rogue!"  she  exclaimed, 
with  vivacity,  and  extended  her  closed  right 
hand.  At  the  same  moment,  a  violent  pain  in 
her  foot  made  her  slender  fingers  open  slightly; 
the  butterfly  pressed  through— fluttered  away— 
was  free.  The  young  man,  aided  by  his  broad- 
brimmed  hat,  made  an  attempt  to  reimprison 
the  fugitive,  but  the  young  girl  detained  him. 
'*Let  him  fly;  he  does  not  care  to  remain  with 

=113  = 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


me  longer;  I  do  not  desire  to  have  him!  He 
was  mine  for  a  minute;  that  satisfies  me!" 

"Pray,  arise;  your  foot  is  malade!"  said 
Andre  Gretry.  He  spoke  slowly,  and  in  broken 
German,  but  his  charming  companion  under- 
stood him ;  she  leaned  upon  his  arm,  and  allowed 
him  to  lead  her  along  gently.  She  pointed  to  a 
village  near  by  with  her  finger,  showing  him 
where  she  dwelt. 

''How  do  you  call  Vendroit  where  you  live?'* 

' '  Sesenheim. ' ' 

''And  what  is  your  name?'' 

"Friederike." 

"How  near  is  Sesenheim?  Let  us  walk 
slowly;  or,  still  better,  let  us  rest  until  your  foot 
is  well." 

And  they  seated  themselves,  side  by  side,  upon 
the  green  turf  under  a  large  beech-tree  which 
had  but  just  unfolded  its  tender  leaves. 

The  sunshine  which  lay  upon  the  young  grass 
fell  through  the  trembling  branches  upon  their 
youthful  heads;  they  both  looked  so  handsome, 
so  good!  Who  would  not  have  prophesied  for 
them  a  future  as  lovely  as  the  spring-day  which 
they  were  both  enjoying?  As  confidential  as 
children,  they  talked  as  though  they  had  been 
acquainted  for  years.  Andre,  although  he  pro- 
nounced   with    difficulty   the    strange    German 

114 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


words,  related  that  he  was  a  musician,  that  he 
was  on  his  way  to  Paris,  and  that  he  had  just 
arrived  in  Strasburg  from  glorious  Switzerland. 
He  depicted  his  free  and  merry  life  with  the 
glowing  enthusiasm  of  youth,  and  spoke  of  his 
high-soaring  plans.  The  maiden  showed  him, 
in  return,  the  red  roof  of  the  parsonage  where 
she  was  born,  and  questioned  him  about  the 
Swiss  mountains  of  which  she  had  read  so  much, 
and  of  the  rosy-cheeked  Swiss  girls  with  their 
clear  voices  and  their  merry  jodle-songs.  He 
described  every  thing  clearly  and  pleasantly; 
the  young  girl  sometimes  laughed  heartily  at  his 
phraseology  and  at  the  construction  of  his 
sentences.  With  the  jodle-songs  he  succeeded 
admirably;  he  knew  many,  had  learned  to  pro- 
nounce them  correctly,  and  sang  them  charm- 
ingly with  his  soft  tenor  voice.  Friederike  was 
particularly  delighted  with  the  following  song: 

"On  the  mountain,* 

As  I  sat. 
Splashed  the  fountain; 

What  of  that? 
As  I  sprang, 

The  birds  in  jest, 

*"Uf  m  S5crgH 
f8in  t  gefdffe,  " 

— Goethe's  Schweizerlied 
-115  


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


While  I  sang, 
Built  a  nest. 

As  I  stood 

Among  the  bowers, 
Near  a  wood, 

There  were  flowers. 
In  the  dells, 

Mid  the  trees 
Were  the  cells 

Of  busy  bees! 

**0n  the  green, 

In  the  month  of  June, 
Was  I  seen 

At  the  sunny  noon! 
With  ripe  lip. 

As  then  I  flew, 
I  took  a  sip 

Of  evening  dew. 

**  'Twas  still  the  same 

As  evening   fell; 
My  Jacky  came. 

He  liked  all  well. 
Then  forth  we  walked. 

And  him  I  bid 
(While  gay  we  talked) 

Do  as  they  did." 

And  the  bees  hummed,  and  fell,  intoxicated 
with  the  spring,  upon  the  grass ;  the  birds,  sang ; 
the  cool  breeze  was  wafted  over  them  as  they 

-116  == 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


sat  there ;  the  young  girl  smiled  upon  the  singer, 
and  Andre  swam  in  bliss.  She  attempted  to 
repeat  the  air ;  he  assisted  her ;  her  voice  sounded 
so  lovely;  laughing  and  jesting,  she  at  last 
learned  the  song. 

"That  shall  be  my  souvenir  of  you,''  Friede- 
rike  said,  attempting  to  rise ;  ' '  I  must  go  home ; 
my  foot  is  quite  well!" 

"Ah,  stay  a  moment  longer!  Who  can  say 
whether  we  will  ever  speak  together  again?" 
He  so  earnestly  implored  her  to  remain,  that  she 
laughingly  reseated  herself. 

"I  hope  I  shall  soon  hear  a  certain  Gretry 
spoken  of  who  has  composed  much  wondrously 
beautiful  music,  and  whom  all  Paris,  or  all 
France,  or  all  the  world,  knows  and  praises!— 
And  then  I  shall  think:  *That  was  the  merry 
singer  who  once  sat  beside  me  under  the  beech- 
tree  and  sang  the  lovely  song  for  me.'  " 

"And  I  shall  bring  out  one  day  a  grand 
opera  in  Paris,  and  the  listeners  will  cry 
*  bravo'  loudly  at  its  conclusion;  but  in  the 
midst  of  the  noise  a  hand  will  throw  me  a 
bouquet— a  bouquet  of  violettes;  and  I  shall 
turn  around,  and  in  the  first  loge,  near  the 
stage,  I  shall  see  a  beautiful  woman  (she  is 
taking  her  bridal  tour)— a  woman  with  brown 
hair  and  black  eyes;  she  greets  me,  and  smiles— 

^117 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


and  her  cher  mart  bows.  Who  is  she?  The 
young  German  girl  from  Sesenheim." 

''Oh,  how  delightful  that  would  be!  Yes,  I 
should  like  to  show  you  the  one  I  shall  dearly 
love.  He  will  be,  I  suppose,  handsome  and  bril- 
liant, handsomer  than  the  butterfly  I  caught 
to-day!" 

*'But  suppose  he  should  fly  away,  like  your 
prisoner,  and  leave  you  only  sorrow?" 

''Nevertheless  he  would  have  been  mine  for 
a  moment ;  then  all  would  be  well.  The  grief  I 
can  bear ! ' ' 

A  pause  followed  these  words.  Friederike 
absently  plucked  her  bouquet  of  violets;  her 
head  was  slightly  elevated,  her  wondrously 
beautiful  doe-like  eyes,  full  of  longing  ques- 
tions, gazed  afar.  Gretry  retained  this  lovely 
picture  forever  in  his  heart. 

Then  he  drew  out  his  tablets,  handed  them  to 
the  young  girl,  placed  the  pencil  in  her  hand, 
and  begged: 

"In  return  for  the  little  song,  write  me,  as 
your  thanks,  your  dear  name  and  the  date." 

She  did  so. 

"Give  me  also  the  half -plucked  bouquet.*' 

Sweetly  smiling,  she  granted  this  request  as 
well;  then  she  arose,  and  extended  him  her 
hand    as    she    departed.     The    joyous,    merry 

-118  == 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


young  man  felt  deeply  moved  as  he  looked  after 
the  maiden  while  she  ascended  the  narrow  foot- 
path which  led  to  the  village.  Lightly,  free 
from  care,  she  walked  along,  often  looking  back 
and  greeting  him,  humming  at  the  same  time, 
with  a  lark-like  voice,  the  melody  of  the  Swiss 
song: 

,,UfmS5etgli 
S5tn  t  gefaffe." 

When  she  at  last  disappeared  behind  the 
hedge,  it  seemed  to  the  young  musician  as 
though  he  had  just  seen  her  coffin  borne  along; 
an  anxious,  troubled  sadness  lay  like  an  Alp 
upon  his  breast,  and  Andre  Gretry,  who  had 
not  shed  a  single  tear  of  sorrow  since  his  child- 
hood, covered  his  face  with  his  hands  and  wept 
bitterly. 

Twenty  years  later,  Andre  Modeste  Ernest 
Gretry  was  sunning  himself  in  the  full  glory  of 
his  fame  as  a  composer.  France  had  declared 
him  her  favourite,  and  Belgium,  his  native 
country,  named  her  son  with  pride.  His 
operas:  *^Le  Huron,"  "Le  Tableau  Parlant," 
''Lucile,"  *' Z entire  et  Azor/'  ''La  Caravane/' 
and,  above  all,  ''Richard  Coeur-de-Lion/'  were 
not  only  performed  everywhere  upon  the 
French  stage,  but  Germany  as  well  crowned  the 

-119  = 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


composer  with  laurels.  Gretry's  chief  forte 
was  correctness  and  reality  in  declamation;  he 
endeavoured  in  song  to  imitate  the  conversa- 
tion of  every-day  life;  he  placed  the  accom- 
paniment in  an  inferior  situation,  and  deter- 
minedly opposed  all  orchestral  ornamentation. 
His  melodies  were,  like  himself,  fresh  and 
pleasing;  and  that  the  source  from  which  he 
created  was  inexhaustible,  is  proved  by  the 
existence  of  over  forty  operas  from  his  pen. 
Gretry's  melodies  became  more  popular  with 
the  French  than  those  of  any  other  composer; 
when  joy  or  sorrow  moved  their  hearts,  they 
always  thought  on  their  favourite  and  sought 
sympathy  in  his  songs.  When  the  great  Em- 
peror Napoleon  retreated  from  Russia,  when 
death  and  desolation  surrounded  him,  and  he 
gazed  with  silent,  bitter  grief  upon  his  maimed 
faithful  ones,  the  Old  Guard  commenced 
Gretry  's  song : 

**OCl  peut-on  etre  mieux 
Qu'au  sein  de  sa  famille?" 

When  the  mighty  hero  fled  from  Elba,  and 
once  more  stood  on  the  soil  of  his  empire,  the 
sons  of  France  enthusiastically  received  him, 
and  joyously  sang: 

''Veillons  au  salut  de  Pempirel" 

=120 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


And  when  at  last  the  fettered  Prometheus 
was  suffering  a  thousand  torments  at  St. 
Helena,  did  not  countless  lips  sing,  softly,  and 
full  of  bitter  sorrow,  the  touching  lay  of  the 
faithful  Blondel: 

**0  Eichard,  6  mon  roi, 
L'univers  t 'abandonne. " 

Gretry  did  not  conclude  the  gentle  melodious 
dream  of  his  life  until  the  24th  of  September  of 
the  year  1813.  Happy  in  his  own  circle, 
honoured  and  beloved  by  his  contemporaries, 
the  last  storms  of  the  Revolution  alone  cast  a 
few  dark  clouds  upon  the  heaven  of  his  exist- 
ence. In  accordance  with  the  last  wishes  of  the 
dead,  they  placed  in  his  coffin,  with  other  loved 
souvenirs  of  his  happiest  days,  a  little,  old 
tablet,  containing  a  leaf  upon  which  were  writ- 
ten the  half -effaced  words: 

^'Friederike  Brion, 
Sesenheim,  the  12th  of  May,  1767," 

and  a  few  violets,  almost  crumbled  to  dust. 

Lovely  maiden  whom  the  honoured  one  once 
met,  and  whose  image  was  never  obliterated 
from  his  memory,  didst  thou  also  dream  softly  ? 

The  lot  of  Friederike  is  known  to  the  world. 
The  shining  butterfly  she  longed  for  flew  into 
her  heart :     Wolfgang  Goethe  entered  the  quiet 

=121 


MUSICAL  SKETCHE!^ 


parsonage  of  Sesenheim.  Among  the  many- 
lovely  airs  that  the  happy  girl  sang  to  her 
beloved  was  the  Swiss  song  that  the  strange 
musician  had  taught  her  on  that  May-day. 
Later,  it  found  its  place  among  Goethe's  minor 
poems,  with  the  simple  remark:  "Communi-\ 
cafed''— What  a  story  lies  hidden  in  that  quiet 
word! 

For  a  single  wondrously  beautiful  summer 
Friederike  called  the  radiant  one  her  own;  then 
he  flew  away  from  her  forever.  She  bore  her 
measureless  grief  without  complaint;  she 
pressed  her  hand  upon  her  heart,  and  said  to 
her  dear  ones,  as  did  Arria  to  Paetus:  ''It  does 
not  pain!*'  But  it  broke,  nevertheless;  she 
wandered  through  life  solitary,  and  often  said: 
''She  who  has  been  beloved  by  Goethe  can 
never  belong  to  any  other  man!'' 


:122: 


The  Convent  of  Saint  Lucia 

IT  was  on  the  festival  of  the  Ascension  of  our 
Saviour,  in  the  year  1794,  that  the  bells  of 
the  beautiful  Convent  of  Saint  Lucia,  not  far 
from  Rome,  rang  for  morning  prayers.  A 
crowd  pressed  towards  the  gate.  The  pic- 
turesque attire  of  the  pilgrims,  the  charming 
women  decked  with  flowers,  wearing  white 
veils  upon  their  heads,  the  proud,  slender  men 
with  orange-blossoms  upon  their  breasts,  formed 
a  spectacle  very  pleasing  to  the  eye.  The  glow- 
ing orb  of  the  sun  fervently  kissed  the  brown, 
richly-coloured  cheeks,  and  cast  his  rays  upon 
forms  beautiful  in  their  strength. 

The  windows  of  the  little  church  were  flam- 
ing with  light.  Within,  clouds  of  incense  arose, 
and  the  faint  glimmer  of  the  consecrated 
torches  could  scarcely  penetrate  through  the 
mist.  A  gentle  twilight  prevailed;  the  pedestal 
of  Saint  Lucia  was  so  hidden  by  beautiful 
wreaths  and  flowers  that  the  saint  looked  like 
the  queen  of  spring  herself.  The  believing 
multitude  fell  upon  their  knees,  as  the  priest 
with    extended    arms    gave    the    blessing;    then 

=123 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


resounded  the  ^*Kyrie  eleison"  from  the  lofty, 
concealed  choir  of  the  pious  nuns.  How  softly- 
flowed  the  voices  down,  how  glorious,  how 
elevating,  was  this  serious  air  of  the  maestro 
Palestrina!  The  chief  melody  steps  so  majes- 
tically and  clearly  through  the  charming 
wreath  of  entwined  voices;  they  seek  to  cover, 
to  envelop,  to  drown  it— but,  conquered, 
humbly  withdraw,  and  at  last  unite  in  a  soft 
accompaniment  to  the  glorious  whole.  The 
quivering  souls  of  the  listeners  rejoicingly 
mount  upon  mighty  pinions  to  heaven,  then 
sink  with  a  pleasing  sadness — as  though  held 
by  gentle,  invisible  chains  of  flowers— to  earth. 

Then  arose  suddenly  in  the  '^Gloria''  a 
soprano  voice,  whose  astonishing  volume  roused 
the  multitude  from  their  sweet  revery.  It  had 
a  penetrating  clearness  almost  piercing  in  its 
purity  and  overwhelming  in  its  power.  It  had 
no  affinity,  nor  did  it  mingle,  with  the  other 
voices;  solitary,  wondrous,  full  and  high,  it 
swelled  throughout  the  church. 

In  the  ^' Credo"  it  was  silent,  another  voice 
took  its  place;  but  at  the  conclusion,  in  the 
touching  *' Agnus  Dei''  and  "Dona  nobis 
pacem,"  it  pierced  anew — like  a  shining,  highly 
sharpened  spear  used  to  victory— through  the 
dense  veil  of  incense.     No  emotion  trembled  in 

— 124- 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


it;  it  was  a  voice  alike  without  age  or  sex— a 
voice  which,  gave  the  impression  that  it  had 
ever  been  and  would  ever  remain  unchangeable. 

The  people  were  much  moved.  ''Holy 
Maria, '^  murmured  an  old  woman,  "that  was 
not  the  voice  of  a  human  being."  She  hastily 
crossed  herself,  and  prayed  softly.  Her  fright- 
ened, black-haired  neighbour  nodded  assent, 
and  repeated  the  words  to  a  man  who  knelt 
beside  her,  who  with  fiery  glances  strove  in  vain 
to  penetrate  through  the  grating  of  the  choir. 

The  mass  was  over.  The  women  forsook  the 
church  in  violent  emotion;  the  men  shook  their 
heads;  every  one  spoke  of  the  magic  sounds; 
but  none  knew  the  name  of  the  hidden  singer. 
The  torches  were  extinguished ;  and  the  exu- 
berant Italian  spring-day  brought  forgetfulness 
of  doubts,  terrors,  and  superstitions. 

On  the  following  day,  when  the  laughing, 
beaming  Italian  morning  looked  with  loving 
eyes  into  the  little  church,  it  was  amazed  to 
find  already  assembled  there  a  vast  multitude. 
Every  face  was  turned  with  an  expression  of 
strained  expectation  towards  the  choir,  from 
which  the  Hora  sounded.  The  enigmatical 
voice  again  floated  over  them,  and  the  heart  of 
every  listener  palpitated  anew  with  a  mixture 
of  joy,  anxiety,  and  awe.     Suddenly  a  young 

=125 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


woman,  trembling  with  emotion,  exclaimed: 
''Holy  Queen  of  Heaven,  I  see  the  wonder! 
Maria  assist  us,  it  is  a  child  that  sings !'*  Be- 
hind the  grating  the  delicate  form  of  a  little 
girl  about  ten  years  old  was  seen,  from  whose 
opened  lips  proceeded  the  wondrous  tones.  The 
child  appeared  to  have  sharply  cut,  regular 
features ;  but  her  figure  was  as  yet  undeveloped, 
and  a  transparent  paleness  covered  her  youth- 
ful cheeks.  The  excitement  of  the  multitude 
increased  hourly  after  this  Jiscovery;  daily, 
crowds  made  pilgrimages  early  and  late  to  the 
convent,  in  order  to  hear  the  singular  little 
singer  whose  voice  could  be  recognized  even  in 
the  fullest  choir.  Its  fame  flew  through  the 
whole  neighbourhood,  it  wandered  even  to 
Rome,  and  the  visitors  thronged  ever  more  and 
more  to  listen  to  the  masses  said  in  the  Convent 
of  Saint  Lucia. 

The  troop  of  believers,  who  gratefully  ac- 
cepted the  supposed  miracle  without  racking 
their  brains,  was  small  in  comparison  to  those 
who  wavered  in  restless  conjectures,  their  heads 
and  hearts  filled  with  manifold  suppositions 
and  doubts  about  the  singer's  person.  ''They 
say  in  the  convent,"  asserted  some,  "that  the 
singer  is  a  boarder  in  the  cloister!  At  all 
events,    she    is    deformed;     she    is    certainly 

c  =126  


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


eighteen  or  nineteen  years  old,  and  perhaps  she 
has  the  form  of  a  child  on  account  of  her  in- 
firmities. No  child  sings  thus!"  ''No,  no," 
cried  others;  ''they  imposed  upon  you  when 
they  told  you  this  tale ;  we  well  know  that  it  is 
one  of  the  younger  nuns,  Sister  Barbara,  that 
sings;  the  child  merely  listens  quietly!"  "By 
no  means,"  interrupted  several  women;  "a 
miracle  has  taken  place;  Saint  Lucia  has  sent 
the  pious  Abbess  Theresa  an  angel  from 
heaven!"  "What  childish  stuff  are  you  chat- 
tering there?"  exclaimed  a  strong  man,  with  a 
wise,  determined  face;  "we  are  deceived;  the 
whole  affair  is  a  shameful  cheat,  to  entice  the 
silver  coins  out  of  our  pockets!"  The  people 
thronged  around  him  with  feverish  haste;  the 
speaker  continued:  "Yes,  just  listen  to  me, 
the  truth  of  my  words  will  become  clear  as  day 
to  you !  Pay  attention ;  I  have  but  little  to  say. 
The  convent  is  poor,  Saint  Lucia  demands  a 
new  velvet  dress  and  a  golden  curtain;  for 
this  they  need  rich  contributions,  and  have 
studied  how  to  attract  the  credulous  multitude. 
They  have  had  a  machine  constructed  in  Rome, 
a  clock  in  the  shape  of  a  human  being— a  kind 
of  wax  doll  with  a  flute  clock-work;  I  tell  you 
that  it  is  no  child  and  no  nun  that  sings  so 
strangely  and  so  loudly:  it  is  merely  a  puppet!'* 

=127 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


The  excited  multitude  started,  shuddered, 
crossed  themselves,  listened,  contested,  raved, 
and  finally  believed.  ''Certainly,  by  the  holy 
Saint  Giovanni,  Matteo  is  right,"  thundered 
out  a  Hercules  with  wild  gestures  and  clenched 
fist;  "this  sing-song  thing  is  priestcraft,  and 
nothing  more !  Who  ever  heard  of  a  singing 
child  with  such  gigantic  strength?  Deceive 
yourselves  no  longer!  The  miraculous  singer  is 
nothing  but  a  wooden  puppet  with  a  wax 
face.  The  thing  is  wound  up  like  a  watch,  and 
sings  all  kinds  of  melodies.  I  have  seen  such 
figures  more  than  once  at  the  house  of  a  cele- 
brated professor  in  Rome."  "Yes,  it  is  not 
strange  that  we  shudder  when  the  clear,  sharp, 
flute-like  tones  strike  our  ear;  it  is  the  pre- 
sentiment of  the  hellish  delusion  that  causes 
it,"  added  another  excited  man,  with  flaming 
looks.  "This  contemptible  deception  dishonours 
the  church  of  Saint  Lucia;  we  must  not  suffer 
it  any  longer;  we  must  unveil  it,  destroy  it; 
and  all  the  Saints  will  assist  us  in  the  work," 
raved  a  third. 

The  heated  crowd  became  wildly  agitated. 
The  women  described  the  staring  wax  face  of 
the  puppet,  her  dead  glass  eyes,  and  declared 
that  they  had  been  unable  to  understand  a 
syllable  of  the  text.    Many  had  distinctly  heard 

— 128 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


a  singular  whizzing  noise  at  the  conclusion  of 
the  *' Gloria.''  ''That  was  the  clock-work  which 
had  run  down,"  said  they  to  each  other.  The 
men  grew  more  and  more  violent;  the  gentlest 
women  became  excited  by  the  fiery  looks  of 
their  husbands,  lovers,  and  brothers;  they  de- 
cided to  make  a  visit  to  the  convent  in  a  body, 
and  to  demand  the  delivery  of  the  flute-clock, 
the  deceptive  singing  doll. 

Thus,  at  the  approach  of  evening,  the  multi- 
tude noisily  wended  their  way  towards  the 
quiet  convent;  they  loudly  knocked  at  the  ivy- 
encircled  gate,  and  fiercely  demanded  entrance. 
The  terrified  prioress  met  the  intruders;  the 
nuns  fled  to  their  cells. 

The  venerable  countenance  of  the  pious 
woman,  her  stately  figure  and  the  elevated  cru- 
cifix, awed  the  multitude;  the  wild  cries  ceased. 
A  few  women  fell  upon  their  knees;  the  men 
drew  back,  and  a  spokesman  respectfully  ap- 
proached the  prioress  and  explained  the  suppo- 
sitions, the  wishes  and  demands,  of  his  compan- 
ions. 

Astonishment  and  doubt  were  depicted  upon 
the  features  of  the  holy  woman.  *'My  chil- 
dren," she  exclaimed,  ''is  it  possible  that  you 
accuse  your  Mother  Theresa  of  deception?  Is 
it  possible  that  you  can  so  greatly  lower  your- 

=^129 


MUSICAL  SKETCBES 


selves  and  can  grieve  me  so  inexpressibly? 
Withdraw,  repent  of  your  sins  and  do  penance 
for  them ;  for  know  that  the  voice  which  has  led 
you  into  this  deplorable  error,  the  voice  which 
has  so  deeply  moved  and  touched  you,  flows 
from  the  lips  of  a  blessed  child  of  God,  from 
the  innocent  lips  of  a  little  girl,  ten  years  old, 
from  Sinigaglia,  who  is  being  educated  in  the 
convent."  ''We  wish  to  see  the  child!"  called 
out  a  few  rude  voices.  At  these  words  the 
people  again  became  angry.  *'Yes,  yes,  we 
wish  to  see  the  enchantress,  to  hear  her  speak, 
to  touch  her  face  and  hands,  to  feel  her  warm 
breath  ! ' '  And  ever  more  threatening  grew  the 
gestures,  the  confused  cries  grew  ever  louder. 
The  exhortations  of  the  Mother  died  away  un- 
heard, and  the  usually  so  quiet  convent-yard 
was  filled  with  harsh  tones. 

Then  Mother  Theresa  disappeared;  she  soon 
returned,  and  presented  to  the  crowd  a  pale, 
delicate,  trembling  little  girl.  The  regular, 
colourless  face  of  the  child  seemed  as  though 
formed  of  yellowish  wax;  her  black  hair  was 
parted  over  her  transparent  brow,  and  she 
anxiously  gazed  with  her  dark,  startled  eyes 
upon  the  expressive  countenances  before  her. 
''Angelica,"  said  the  prioress,  gently,  "do  not 
be   afraid;   be   courageous,   assist  your  Mother 

=130  


CATALAN! 


■MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


Theresa  and  these  deluded  ones;  elevate  your 
voice,  and  greet  the  Queen  of  Heaven ! ' ' 

Angelica  opened  her  lips  and  commenced  an 
old,  simple  ^' Salve  Regina;''  but  she  sang  it 
with  such  strength,  such  purity,  such  exalta- 
tion, that  the  noiseless  assembly  involuntarily 
bent  their  knees.  The  deep  peace,  the  spotless 
innocence,  that  were  heard  in  those  tones  could 
have  proceeded  only  from  one  untouched  by 
life's  sweet  sorrow  or  bitter  joy.  Softly  and 
gloriously  fell  the  faint,  trembling  light  of  the 
moon  upon  the  heads  of  all— upon  the  youthful 
brow  of  the  singer  and  upon  the  serious  coun- 
tenance of  the  agitated  abbess. 

When  Angelica  concluded,  the  kneeling  men 
and  women  arose,  and  rushed  towards  the  child 
with  that  overflowing,  genuine  enthusiasm 
which  is  the  heart-moving  peculiarity  of  all 
Southern  nations.  With  sobs,  they  kissed  the 
little  hands  of  the  smiling  one,  as  well  as  the 
hem  of  her  garment,  her  slightly  flushed  cheeks, 
her  feet;  they  praised  her  with  tears  of  rap- 
ture ;  they  blessed  her ;  and  a  unanimous  cry  of 
delight  pierced  the  air: 

*'EvvivA  Angelica   Catalani!" 

Mother  Theresa  shortly  afterwards  dismissed 
the  wonderful  child-singer  from  the  convent; 
she  could  not  forget  the  disturbance  she  had 

^131  


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


occasioned.  She  must  certainly  have  bitterly- 
repented  having  done  so,  later;  for  the  little 
Angelica  became,  in  a  very  short  space  of 
time — as  the  whole  world  knows — the  great 
Catalani.  Europe  lay  at  her  feet.  What  a 
collection  of  splendid  garments,  necklaces,  and 
little,  glittering  crowns  would  Saint  Lucia 
doubtless  have  received  from  her  visitors  had 
the  child  remained ! 


:132= 


Maria 

THE  magic  splendour  of  a  Southern  eve- 
ning sky  in  the  month  of  May  hung  over 
*  *  *  and  its  charming  neighbourhood.  The 
landscape  smiled,  lighted  alternately  by  the 
kisses  of  the  most  luxuriant  spring  and  those  of 
the  mildest  evening.  Near  this  romantic  city 
stood  a  country-seat,  encircled  by  a  blooming 
garden;  a  Spanish  family  had  taken  it  for  a 
few  weeks.  ''A  garden  in  Italy!"  This 
thought  fills  our  Northern  fancy  with  pleasing 
emotion:  pine-trees  rustle,  cypress-trees  cast 
their  shadowy  veil  over  laughing  flowers,  in 
order  to  soften  their  burning  colours;  lemon 
and  orange  trees  playfully  drop  their  delicious 
blossoms  upon  the  ground;  the  stately  laurel 
gazes  seriously  upon  their  sport,  whilst  the 
lovely  myrtle  extends  her  delicate  arms  towards 
him  with  silent  longing,  and  it  seems  as  though 
tiny  silver  stars  glittered  amidst  her  sombre 
foliage.  The  voices  of  countless  birds  animate 
the  odorous  Paradise,  and  glittering  butterflies, 
free  and  unfettered  as  thoughts  of  love,  flutter 
in  blissful  intoxication  from  flower  to  flower. 

=133—  


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


In  such  a  garden,  lighted  by  the  moonlight— 
which  in  this  blessed  land  is  a  silver  sunshine- 
lay  a  child,  playing;  she  possessed  the  delicate 
and  dreamy  loveliness  of  an  elf;  her  pure  brow 
had  been  kissed  by  but  six  summers,  but  she  was 
unusually  thoughtful,  and  a  strangely  elevated 
light  shone  forth  from  her  dark-brown  eyes. 

The  solitary  little  one  would  smilingly  heap 
up  blossoms,  bury  her  curly  head  in  the  soft 
perfumed  pillow,  rest  a  while  and  seem  to 
dream,  then,  unwearied,  commence  anew  her 
sport.  The  inquisitive  butterflies  flew  near, 
wishing  to  taste  caressingly  the  young  lips  that 
glowed  as  brightly  as  the  proudest  rose;  the 
little  birds  seemed  to  know  the  fair  little  maid, 
for  they  hopped  near  and  pulled  her  long  brown 
locks  with  their  tiny  bills.  The  child  looked  on, 
half  breathless  with  joy;  she  did  not  even  seek 
to  drive  away  the  thirsty  gnats,  that  sank  their 
stings  with  an  enchanted  humming  into  the 
child's  round,  white  arm. 

It  is  true  that  the  birds  and  flowers,  the 
beetles  and  butterflies,  the  gay  flies  and  the 
audacious  gnats,  were  the  child's  playmates; 
she  had  no  little  sister,  then,  and  her  father  and 
mother  were  but  serious  companions  for  the 
dreamy  little  elf ;  so  the  ever-beautiful  world  of 
blossoms  and  free,  luxurious  nature  became  the 

3^134 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


wise  and  beloved  preceptors  of  the  susceptible 
child. 

When  the  last  sigh  of  ardent  Day  had  died 
away,  Night  approached  with  her  light  step; 
she  gently  breathed  upon  the  flowers,  and  al- 
lowed the  pearly  tears  of  her  eyes  to  trickle 
upon  the  pining  leaves.  Then  resounded  from 
the  rich  foliage  of  a  lemon-tree  a  wondrously 
beautiful  song.  It  was  that  of  a  nightingale, 
decked  in  her  plain,  gray,  feathery  dress. 

How  fortunate  are  we,  also,  in  knowing  this 
lovely  little  creature!  She  is  like  a  sunbeam 
full  of  song,  thrown  from  the  glowing  South 
into  our  Northern  spring  by  the  loving  hand  of 
God!  Who,  on  hearing  the  name  of  "nightin- 
gale," does  not  imagine  himself  seated  by  the 
side  of  a  hidden,  gently  murmuring  brook  that 
is  densely  shaded  by  drooping  willows,  the 
delicate  tips  of  whose  green  fingers  are  refresh- 
ingly dipped  into  its  cool  waters?  The  moon- 
light trembles  through  the  branches,  as  the 
wondrous  song  of  the  bird  is  wafted  through 
the  air. 

Then  the  closed  heart  opens,  and  inhales 
thirstily  the  magical  silver  tones;  they  fall  like 
balm  upon  every  wound,  they  heighten  every 
joy;  they  bring  sweet  nameless  sorrows  and 
rapturous  longing   to   the  happy,   and   dreams 

=135 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


of  heaven  to  those  whose  every  joy  has  vanished 
and  whose   every   hope   is   dead. 

The  child  trembled  with  delight  at  the  tones, 
which  she  heard  for  the  first  time.  The  bird 
sang  on,  and  the  little  girl's  whole  soul  hung 
upon  the  voice,  and  soared  and  floated  with  it 
far  away  into  the  infinite. 

All  around  was  deep  silence;  birds  and 
flowers  blissfully  sipped  the  precious  drops  of 
sound. 

Do  you  know  whence  the  nightingale,  of  all 
other  birds,  obtained  this  enchanting  voice? 
''The  nightingale  once"— so  related  to  me  the 
little  bird's  beloved,  a  slight,  charming  rose- 
elf— "touched  with  her  wings  and  breast  the 
mighty,  golden,  gigantic  harp  of  the  great 
Creator  of  the  world  in  the  glorious  Paradise. 
The  chords  rustled,  the  eternal  harmonies 
sounded,  welled,  and  streamed  over  the  delicate 
creature;  thence  she  received  the  heavenly, 
beautiful  voice.  She  was  not  permitted  to  en- 
joy her  precious  gift,  for  God  punished  the 
curious  one,  and  death  accompanied  the  voice. 
She  must  sing  and  sing  ever.  It  was  impossible 
for  the  frail  body  to  sustain  the  fulness,  the 
mightiness,  of  these  tones,  and  the  poor  bird 
faded,  in  the  midst  of  life's  bloom,  in  the  midst 
of  her   loveliest  melodies.    The  brilliant  treas- 

-136  


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


ure  descended  through  ages  from  nightingale  to 
nightingale;  but  all  sang,  and  died,  like  this 
first  punished  singer  of  Paradise. 

''The  All-merciful  One,  in  his  boundless 
compassion,  has  given  a  consolation  to  the 
nightingale  race:  they  can  bestow  the  danger- 
ous stolen  treasure  upon  a  pure  imploring  child 
of  man.  Then  they  can  live  on  in  peace,  they 
can  enjoy  their  life;  for,  as  the  voice  leaves 
them,  death,  the  inseparable  companion  of  the 
magic  gift,  departs. 

"Such  donations  occur  but  seldom,"  play- 
fully added  the  rose-elf,  in  conclusion,  ''for  we 
love  only  the  singing  nightingales;  the  sly  ones 
know  this  well,  and  prefer  a  short  but  intoxi- 
cating life  of  love  to  a  long,  soundless,  un- 
adorned existence."  With  these  words  the 
pleasing  narrator,  somewhat  fatigued,  slipped 
into  the  calyx  of  a  half-closed  moss-rose,  and 
reposed. 

The  listening  child  did  not  know  of  this 
legend;  but  the  secret,  magical  power  of  the 
nightingale's  song  cast  a  spell  upon  this  young 
heart:  it  beat  wildly  with  happiness,  presenti- 
ments, dreams,  and  hopes  which  the  half- 
awakened  soul  of  the  child  could  not  as  yet 
comprehend.  Her  little  hands  were  uncon- 
sciously   folded    in    prayer,    and    tears    flowed 

^137  


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


from  the  glittering  eyes.  ''Oh,"  softly  sighed 
the  child,  ''would  that  I  were  such  a  singing 
bird!'' 

Ever  more  lengthened  grew  the  heart-moving 
sounds,  ever  more  seductive  the  wondrous  song! 
The  siren  of  the  air  drew  her  indestructible 
fetters  ever  more  and  more  closely  about  those 
who  lent  an  ear  to  the  enchanting  melodies. 
Suddenly  the  singer  became  silent;  a  melodious 
sigh,  a  restless  fluttering,  and  the  little  bird  fell 
dying  at  the  feet  of  the  terrified  child.  Weep- 
ing and  astonished,  she  bent  over  the  expiring 
one,  and  laid  the  little  quivering  body  of  the 
bird  upon  a  bed  of  perfumed  rose-leaves.  Then 
a  grateful  glance  flashed  from  the  nightingale's 
half -closed  eyes;  the  pitying  child  laid  her 
blooming  cheek  upon  the  numbed  body,  and 
gently  pressed  her  round  rosy  mouth  upon  the 
little  bird's  head.  A  breath  touched  her;  it 
was  a  wondrously  balmy  breath,  and  she  was 
forced  to  draw  it  deep,  deep  into  her  breast! 
How  strange!  As  she  sank  upon  the  grass,  it 
appeared  to  her  that  the  nightingale,  cured  and 
merry,  had  flown  away  with  a  singular  chirp- 
ing. Then  came  charming  forms;  they  covered 
the  resting  one  with  flowers,  and  cast  golden 
wreaths  of  laurel  upon  her.  It  seemed  to  her 
that  she  had  wings,  and  that  she  soared  and 

!  -138  : 


MALIBRAN 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


sang  as  did  the  gray  wondrous  bird  that  she 
had  kissed.  Then  the  veil  of  unconsciousness 
spread  itself  over  the  feverishly  excited  being; 
and  thus  the  seeking  parents  found  their  miss- 
ing child. 


Many  years  had  passed  since  that  May  night. 
The  icy  hand  of  winter  lay  upon  the  warm 
heart  of  the  earth,  and  a  brilliant  assemblage 
filled  the  Italian  Opera-House  in  Paris.  The 
rays  of  the  dazzling  chandelier  fell  flatteringly 
upon  many  a  charming  countenance,  upon 
many  a  snowy  neck;  they  were  mirrored  in 
beautiful  eyes,  and  glittered  boldly  in  the 
countless  dewdrops  of  diamonds,  rubies,  and 
emeralds  which  a  fairy-hand  seemed  to  have 
lavishly  scattered  over  these  fair  mortal 
flowers.  A  joyous  impatience  was  manifested; 
when  the  overture  to  Rossini's  "Othello"  com- 
menced, low  murmurs  were  heard,  and  glances 
of  excited  expectation  were  directed  towards 
the  curtain.  The  opera  began:  forms  appeared, 
tones  arose  and  vanished;— the  assembled  mul- 
titude still  watched  and  waited.  At  last  Des- 
demona  appeared.  Then  a  unanimous  cry  of 
delight  resounded  through  the  glittering  walls 
of  the  temple  of  art ;  then  countless  flowers  and 
wreaths  were  cast  upon  the  stage;  a  ray  of  joy 

-139  1^^::^=:= 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


flashed    from    every    eye,  a  smile    of    rapture 
played  upon  every  lip. 

To  whom  belonged  this  delicate  ethereal 
form,  this  pale  countenance,  this  glance  so  full 
of  soul,  this  irresistible  voice?  Who  was  that 
fair  woman,  whose  song  reanimated  withered 
hearts  and  brought  to  them  dreams  of  their 
vanished  childhood,  mingled  with  the  still 
brighter  ones  of  their  long-buried  love? 

It  was  the  playing  child  in  the  garden,  the 
blest  heiress  of  the  nightingale,  the  queen  of 
song: 

Maria  Malibran-Garcia. 

She  has  vanished,  the  praised  one;  but  let  us 
not  complain,  for  she  died,  as  all  know,  as  a 
nightingale  must  die;  the  star  of  her  existence 
was  extinguished  in  the  midst  of  the  most  exu- 
berant life.  She  has  left  for  us  her  memory 
and  a  wondrous  singing  flower  that  bloomed 
beneath  her  eyes — ^her  sister  Paulina. 


:140r 


The  Angel's  Voice 

'Si  Deus  pro  nobis,  quis  contra  nos?'* 
Handel's  Messiah,  Op. 


60. 


SPRING  had  once  more  visited  the  beautiful 
earth;  hearts  and  flowers  awoke  smilingly; 
fresh,  joyous  life  hovered  through  the  air;  the 
shining  canopy  of  heaven  wore  its  deepest  blue, 
and  the  sun  shone  in  brilliant  gold.  A  tall, 
serious  man  strode  thoughtfully  through  a  lit- 
tle garden.  Light-winged  spirits  fluttered  in- 
visibly around  him;  rosy  zephyrs  whizzed 
sportively  about  his  king-like  head  and  waved 
white  cherry-blossoms  in  his  proud,  handsome 
face.  An  indescribable  loftiness  graced  the 
straight,  vigorous  form  of  the  meditating  one. 
On  beholding  him,  one  was  reminded  of  the 
heroes  of  antiquity  and  of  powerful  and  wise 
kings  long  since  dead.  A  noble  self-conscious- 
ness and  a  holy  repose  sat  upon  his  godlike 
brow ;  a  sparkling  light  shone  from  his  large 
eyes;  but  a  deep  melancholy  lay  about  the 
superb  mouth,  which  not  even  the  fairest  smiles 
of  the  young  spring  could  dispel.  The  serious 
man  slowly  ascended   a  grassy  mound,   whose 

:141  = 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


summit  was  crowned  with  a  budding  apple-tree, 
which  seemed  covered  with  a  purple  veil;  and 
here  he  gazed  with  delight  upon  the  blooming 
landscape.  Not  far  from  the  garden  there  lay  a 
large  city,  framed  in  green  meadows  and 
luxuriant  gardens,  full  of  life,  with  smoking 
chimneys  and  shining  roofs;  while  lofty  blue 
mountains  arose  in  the  distance.  It  was  Dub- 
lin, the  capital  of  Ireland. 

**0  thou  green  childlike  Ireland/'  exclaimed 
the  solitary  one,  with  emotion,  stretchmg  out 
his  arms,  ''pious,  simple  land,  full  of  humility 
and  morality,  full  of  belief  and  endurance.  I 
come  to  thee  with  a  heart  so  hopeful ;  wilt  thou 
understand  me?  Wilt  thou  listen  joyfully  and 
attentively  to  the  holy  tidings  that  I  bring  to 
thee  in  serious  sounds— the  tidings  of  the  birth 
of  the  Infant  Saviour?  With  pure  hearts,  in 
unison  with  the  shepherds  of  the  field,  wilt  thou 
adore  him?  Wilt  thou  share  their  amazement 
at  the  exalted  miracle,  and  join  the  heavenly 
host  in  their  hymn  of  praise  ?  Will  the  souls  of 
thy  people  be  more  sensible  to  the  revelations 
of  the  Lord,  to  the  miracle  of  the  Holy  Testa- 
ment, than  were  the  eternally  occupied,  cold 
people  of  misty  England?  I  announced  my 
high  and  holy  message  in  the  vacant  aisles 
of    the    handsomest    church    in    London;    they 

=142 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


scorned  its  Yoice  amidst  the  bustle  of  the  noisy 
city,  and  forgot  to  listen  to  me!  A  low  but 
infinitely  sweet  voice,  like  unto  the  sound  of  a 
harp,  murmured  to  me,  one  sleepless  night: 
'Up,  arise,  away  to  Ireland!  Be  of  good  cheer, 
holy  singer;  thou  wilt  be  victorious,  and  this 
victory  will  be  the  first  link  of  the  golden  chain 
of  future  triumphs!'  I  obeyed  the  miraculous 
voice,  and  am  irresistibly  attracted  towards 
thee,  my  Ireland!  I  fled  from  the  walls  of 
sombre  London,  and  now  I  am  here !  I  thought 
my  sorrow  could  only  be  ended  by  thee;  would 
that  my  grief  could  but  pass  away  in  thy  green 
valleys!  Did  the  mysterious  voice  announce 
the  truth?  Shall  I  really  see  the  radiant  sun 
of  triumph  rise  above  my  head,  after  the  many, 
the  lengthened  contests  of  an  agitated  life?  0 
Lord  of  all  creation,  whose  praise  I  announce, 
whose  servant  I  have  become,  grant  me  a 
glorious  victory!  Strengthen  me,  Almighty 
One,  for  I  have  become  weary !  My  father- 
land, blest  Germany,  scorns  and  rejects  me;  the 
number  of  mine  enemies  grows  gigantic,  and  I 
am  despondent  and  prostrated;  my  contending 
arm  has  at  last  become  exhausted!  Fight  for 
me,  0  my  God!" 

Then  a  strange    rustling    was    heard  in  the 
branches;  the  rays  of  the  sun  seemed  to  shine 

—143 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


more  dazzlingly,  the  flowers  appeared  to  give 
forth  more  fragrance,  and  the  balmy  air  un- 
dulated so  wondrously,  that  the  serious  man, 
who  had  just  finished  speaking,  closed  his  eyes 
in  a  blissful  dream.  Hasty  steps  approached 
from  the  garden;  an  ugly  little  man,  attired 
in  black,  climbed  the  hillock,  and  exclaimed, 
in  bad  English:  *' Master  Handel,  worthiest 
leader,  where  are  you?  I  have  been  seeking 
you  for  two  hours  in  all  the  corners  of  your 
house,  and  also  in  the  houses  of  all  your  friends. 
I  can  scarcely  breathe,  I  have  run  so  fast:  and 
here  you  sit  and  slumber;  there  is  no  time  for 
this,  sir!"  he  continued,  with  an  important 
air,  gesticulating  with  his  withered  arms  and 
shaking  his  frightful  head,  which  was  covered 
with  a  crooked  little  wig.  *'I  bring  you  a  dis- 
agreeable piece  of  news:  Signora  Lucia,  the 
famous  prima  donna,  has  announced  that  she 
is  ill;  the  promised  performance  of  your 
oratorio  cannot  take  place  to-morrow.  Shall  I 
run  to  countermand  the  singers  and  musicians, 

and  then " 

The  master  drew  himself  up  as  majestically 
and  angrily  as  a  wounded  lion.  **The  repre- 
sentation will  not  take  place?"  he  exclaimed, 
interrupting  the  man,  and  casting  a  look  upon 
his   dwarf-like   form   that   made  him   involun- 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


tarily  retreat  a  few  steps;  *'who  dares  to  pro- 
nounce such  words?  Not  take  place  because 
of  the  malicious  caprice  of  an  Italian  prima 
donna  f  Are  there  not  many  fine  voices  in 
Dublin,  so  rich  in  music?— are  there  none  that 
can  replace  this  glittering,  trilling  bird?  So 
true  as  I  am  Handel,  I  will  devise  some  plan! 
The  performance  shall  take  place  to-morrow 
evening.    Go ! " 

"By  Saint  Patrick,  this  German  musician 
who  has  flown  here  is  worse  than  the  most 
raging  Englishman,"  the  little  man  muttered, 
slinking  cautiously  after  Handel  at  a  respectful 
distance;  "one  would  like  to  hide  from  him! 
As  true  as  my  name  is  O'Reilly,  and  as  I  am 
leader  of  the  orchestra,  I  should  not  like  to 
dwell  in  the  bearish  country  of  which  he  is  3. 
native ! ' '  .. — 

The  ardent,  inquisitive  glances  of  the  May 
sun,  in  spite  of  its  arduous  efforts,  could  not 
succeed  in  penetrating  the  dark-red,  tightly- 
drawn,  silken  curtains  of  the  charming  apart- 
ment of  the  celebrated  beauty  of  the  day— the 
much-praised  Italian  singer  Lucia,  the  fa- 
vourite of  the  elegant  world  of  Dublin.  The 
arrangement  of  the  large  room  was  magnifi- 
cent: rare,  fresh  flowers  stood  in  gold  and 
silver  vases  in  all  the  comers;  marble  basins, 

10 


MUSICAL  SEETCBES 


filled  with  perfumed  waters,  diffused  a  pleasant 
and  intoxicating  coolness  through  the  atmos- 
phere; whilst  the  splendour  and  indescribable 
softness  of  the  carpets,  chairs,  and  divans 
manifested  a  love  of  luxury  and  Italian  ease. 
The  Signora  lay— a  picture  of  dolce  far  niente 
clad  in  a  white  dress,  that  hung  in  rich  folds 
upon  the  red  velvet  sofa;  she  had  wound  pic- 
turesquely an  expensive  veil  about  her  head, 
and  she  had  arranged  it  so  as  to  show  to  advan- 
tage a  few  of  the  perfumed  locks  of  her  black 
hair.  Several  of  her  fellow-artists  and  friends- 
elegant  men  of  different  ages,  and  representa- 
tives of  different  nations— were  seated  near 
her.  Here,  a  very  pale,  rich  English  noble- 
man, attired  in  a  ridiculous,  foppish  manner, 
and  with  the  air  of  a  despairing  hlase,  reclined 
on  a  divan;  there,  a  slight,  fiery  Frenchman 
moved  restlessly  to  and  fro  upon  his  chair; 
near  him  a  dark,  handsome  Italian  was  rocking 
himself  whilst  singing  softly;  a  few  distin- 
guished Irishmen  were  there,  as  well  as  the 
primo  tenor e  and  primo  basso  of  the  theatre. 
The  rosy  light  from  the  curtains  shed  a  soft, 
deceptive,  shining  glow  upon  every  thing;  the 
Signora  turned  her  face  from  one  to  the  other, 
sympathetically  smiling;  the  carefully  effaced 
rouge  had  given  her  cheeks  a  yellowish  hue; 


MUSICAL  SEETCEES 


her  black  eyes  and  full  red  lips  did  not  show 
the  slightest  trace  of  illness,  of  feverish  lan- 
guor or  fatigue,  but  looked  as  roguish  and  as 
provoking  as  ever. 

''How  he  will  rave,  il  harharo  Tedesco!''  she 
said,  in  broken  English,  to  a  strikingly  hand- 
some young  Irishman  who  was  seated  at  her 
feet;  "for  now  he  cannot  have  his  horrible, 
difficult  oratorio  performed!  How  pleased  I 
am!  And  he  never  shall,  with  my  assistance; 
I  determined  that  when  I  sang  the  first 
measure  of  the  grand  air  with  the  frightful 
Latin  words:  Bedemptor  mens  vivit,  which 
the  maestro  gave  me.  Then  he  was  so  ungal- 
lant  at  the  rehearsal  as  to  call  to  me,  in  a  com- 
manding voice,  to  sing  piously— that  there  was 
no  holiness  in  my  tones !  Shall  I  allow  that  to 
be  said  to  me  unpunished?  Never!  I  was 
taken  ill,  and  quite  dangerously.  Thus,  you 
see  me  here!''  she  concluded,  with  a  coquettish 
smile.  Flattering  speeches  followed  her  dis- 
course: they  unanimously  approved  of  the 
Signora's  conduct  towards  the  proud  German 
musician,  and  all  zealously  attacked  Master 
Handel ;  each  one  related  a  piquant  story  of  his 
severity  and  pretension,  in  the  hope  of  win- 
ning an  applauding  smile  from  the  flattered 
beauty;  none  spared  him. 

-147 = 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


**I  must  confess  that  I  am  secretly  afraid  of 
him/'  the  fair  Lucia  said,  at  last;  *' there  is 
something  overpowering  in  his  whole  bearing; 
I  cannot  endure  his  glance.  When  he  touched 
my  arm  with  his  baton,  I  trembled.  Santa 
Madre,  if  he  were  to  reproach  me  I  think  I 
should  die  of  fear!'' 

''Charming  Signora,  you  forget  that  your 
true  knights  are  assembled  around  you,  ready 
to  give  their  lives  for  a  glance  of  your  eye!" 
cried  the  chorus  of  flatterers. 

Lucia  nodded,  while  she  graciously  smiled, 
and  then  continued:  ''I  often  call  to  mind  a 
story  of  my  mother's,  who  was  an  intimate 
friend  of  the  singer  Cuzzoni,  so  celebrated 
about  nineteen  years  ago.  At  that  time  Handel 
composed  operas,  which,  I  suppose,  were  worth 
a  thousand  of  his  new  oratorios;  the  spoiled 
Cuzzoni,  who  was  then  enjoying  her  unex- 
ampled triumphs  in  London,  was  to  study  a 
part  in  the  opera  of  'Nero,'  or  'Muzio  Scaevola.' 
At  the  rehearsal,  she  found  the  stiff  and 
unornamented  melody  odious  to  her;  she  threw 
the  sheet  of  music  upon  the  ground  in  a  fit  of 
impatience,  trod  upon  it  with  her  tiny  feet, 
and  exclaimed:  ^Barharo,  I  will  never  sing 
that!'  The  enraged  maestro  sprang  upon  her, 
seized  her    slight,    airy    form    in  his    gigantic 

-148  


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


arms,  raised  her  in  the  air  like  a  child,  and 
held  her  out  of  the  open  window,  far  out  under 
the  blue  sky  and  high  from  the  ground.  'Will 
you  sing  the  part?'  he  inquired.  The  young 
woman,  half  fainting,  stunned,  and  dizzy, 
tremblingly  vowed  by  all  the  saints  to  do  his 
will,  did  he  but  spare  her  life.  Handel  yielded ; 
Cuzzoni  kept  her  promise,  and  sang.'' 

The  listeners  had  scarcely  time  to  give  vent 
to  their  anger  and  astonishment  in  exaggerated 
exclamations,  when  the  pretty  cameriera  of  the 
signora  rushed  in,  pale  as  death,  and  cried: 
'* Santa  Virgine—il  maestro!''  Lucia  trembled, 
and  raised  with  her  beautiful  hand  a  curtain 
behind  her  couch.  *'Away  with  you,"  she 
anxiously  cried  to  her  astonished  friends;  *'he 
must  not  see  me  in  your  company!  Quick! 
quick!  go  into  my  cabinet!  If  I  need  you,  the 
silvery  tone  of  my  hand-bell  will  summon 
you!"  The  elegants  quickly  disappeared,  and 
the  heavy  golden  fringe  of  the  curtain  still 
trembled,  when  the  door  burst  open,  and 
Handel  entered  the  room. 

The  singer  had  languidly  thrown  herself 
back,  and  closed  her  eyes.  She  remained  a 
short  time  in  this  position ;  but  when  the  heavy 
tread  of  the  master  drew  nearer,  and  the  slight, 
costly  toys  upon    the  little  marble    table  that 

149 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


stood  before  her  commenced  to  vibrate,  she 
raised  herself,  apparently  astonished,  and 
asked,  in  a  faint  voice,  who  it  was  that  ven- 
tured to  disturb  her  slumber.  ''Madam,"  said 
Handel,  loudly  and  energetically— and  the 
commanding  tone  of  his  powerful  voice  made 
the  terrified  hypocrite's  heart  beat— "be 
pleased  to  remember  that  at  this  moment  you 
are  not  standing  upon  the  stage!  You  need 
not  exert  yourself  with  me ;  I  did  not  come  here 
to  see  you  act  a  comedy,  but  to  demand  your 
partition !  Where  is  the  music  ?  Give  me  back 
your  part;  and  quickly,  for  I  have  no  super- 
fluous moments  to  throw  away!  At  the  same 
time,  I  will  remark  to  you  that  your  illness  is 
very  agreeable  to  me;  for  I  could  not  abide 
your  Italian  cooing— which  is  suited  to  the 
stage,  but  not  to  the  church;  it  would  perhaps 
have  ruined  my  serious  work.'* 

A  flash  of  anger  spread  over  the  Signora's 
face;  she  forgot  her  role;  she  sprang  up,  and 
cried,  furiously:  *'Sir,  I  will  not  allow  myself 
to  be  insulted  with  impunity,  in  my  own  house, 
by  an  intruder!"  She  seized  the  little  silver 
hand-bell,  and  rang  violently.  Handel,  stand- 
ing with  a  king-like  air  opposite  to  her,  re- 
peated, simply  and  firmly:  "I  demand  the 
partition,  and  nothing  more;  give  it  me.     You 

•  150  


HANDEL 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


can  then  be  ill  for  as  long  a  time  as  may  be 
pleasing  to  yourself!"  A  constrained  pause 
ensued.  Handel  at  last  exclaimed,  in  an 
emphatic  voice,  whilst  a  shadow  of  displeasure 
passed  over  his  noble  countenance:  "Your 
invisible  valiant  friends  do  not  hasten  to  your 
rescue ;  I"  shall  be  obliged  to  invite  them  to  do 
so  myself!"  He  advanced,  and,  before  the 
frightened  singer  could  prevent  it,  he  had 
raised  the  curtain  behind  the  sofa,  and  con- 
templated, with  an  ironical  smile,  the  group  of 
confused  men  crowded  together  there.  A  few 
of  them  ventured  to  make  a  faint  attempt  to 
bow  to  him.  Lucia,  half  dead  with  shame, 
snatched  a  roll  of  music  from  the  piano  and 
threw  it  upon  the  table.  Handel  seized  it ;  with- 
out honouring  the  singer  with  a  glance,  much 
less  a  word,  he  left  the  room. 


Late  in  the  evening  Master  George  Handel 
again  paced  up  and  down  his  garden,  his  head 
and  heart  filled  with  heavy  thoughts  and 
anxious  cares.  The  whole  afternoon  he  had 
unremittingly  tormented  and  fatigued  himself 
by  endeavouring  to  procure  a  singer  who  could 
take  the  soprano  part  in  his  new  oratorio  of  the 
*' Messiah."  He  had  found  no  one!  At  every 
door  upon  which  he  had  knocked  with  joyous 

151 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


hopes,  he  had  met  sickness,  caprice,  irritability, 
or  deficient  musical  feeling.  He  had  returned 
weary,  exhausted,  discouraged,  and  sad.  His 
whole  soul  was  bent  upon  this  performance 
being  a  successful  one— a  performance  that, 
after  manifold  intrigues,  had  been  three  times 
postponed,  and  was  at  last  really  to  have  taken 
place.  The  mortifying  coldness  and  want  of 
sympathy  with  which  London  had  received  the 
'* Messiah"  had  driven  the  creator  of  this  most 
glorious  work,  prostrated  with  grief,  from  the 
noisy  city.  He  had  taken  refuge  in  Ireland, 
hoping  to  find  there  a  more  yielding  ground  for 
his  precious  seed.  And  should  this  consoling 
hope,  to  which  he  had  clung  with  the  despair  of 
a  shipwrecked  man,  be  frustrated  by  new  dis- 
appointments? The  master's  vigorous  form 
succumbed  beneath  the  torments  of  his  de- 
sponding soul;  overwhelmed  with  sorrow,  he 
clasped  his  hands,  and  allowed  his  proud  head 
to  sink  upon  his  breast. 

''0  God,  0  my  Lord,"  he  whispered,  with  a 
heavy  heart,  '*dost  thou  no  longer  perform 
miracles  for  believers?  Hast  thou  quite  for- 
saken me?" 

Then  a  white  garment  shone  through  the 
green  bushes;  a  slight  female  form  glided  to- 
wards him,  and  a  dazzlingly  white  transparent 

.152  = 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


hand  touched  his  arm.  Startled,  he  looked  up, 
and  beheld  a  youthful  countenance  of  wondrous 
rosy  beauty;  long  blonde  locks  floated  like 
heavy  gold  upon  her  shoulders.  The  childlike 
lips  of  the  fair  stranger,  seemingly  emitting 
a  flowery  fragrance,  breathed  the  following 
words,  sounding  like  the  tones  of  an  eolian 
harp  :  ' '  Grieve  no  longer,  pious  master ;  look 
up  believingly!  God  has  not  forsaken  thee; 
therefore  be  of  good  cheer!  Await  the  evening 
of  to-morrow  with  tranquillity,  for  I  will  sing 
thy  *  Messiah.'  No  trial  is  needed,  great  mas- 
ter; trust  me;  with  God's  assistance  I  shall 
sing  without  fear.  Arise,  thou  beloved  of  God! 
The  victory  is  thine!  Farewell!  To-morrow 
thou  shalt  see  me  again  in  the  church ! ' '  With 
a  parting  salutation  the  lovely  being  floated 
away  like  a  vision,  and  vanished  at  the  end  of 
the  garden.  The  stars  sparkled  like  happy 
eyes,  the  vapours  in  the  air  became  more 
odorous,  and  the  master's  soul  palpitated  like 
a  flower  beneath  the  kiss  of  the  angel  of  dew. 
His  glances  sought  the  silent,  radiant  canopy 
of  heaven,  and  his  breast  heaved  with  mute, 
fervent  thanks  and  strange  awe.  Trembling, 
believing,  inspired,  he  sleeplessly  passed  the 
sultry  spring  night  in  blissful  expectation. 


:153= 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


The  magnificent  overture  of  the  oratorio  of 
the  *' Messiah"  swept  through  the  vast  arches 
of  the  church.  Countless  tapers  shone  upon 
the  silent,  dense  crowd  of  devout  listeners, 
which  extended  farther  than  the  eye  could 
reach.  They  shone  also  upon  the  full  chorus  of 
male  and  female  singers.  A  slight  form,  clad  in 
white— it  was  that  of  a  beautiful  maiden— stood 
next  to  Handel's  elevated  seat;  she  had  a  glori- 
ous face,  that  none  had  ever  beheld  before. 

Handel  ruled  the  swelling  orchestra  as  does 
a  king  his  realm.  Erect,  in  the  attitude  of  a 
proud  hero,  the  clear,  joyous  hope  of  victory 
sat  upon  his  brow;  his  sparkling  eyes  surveyed 
the  extent  of  his  dominions,  and  the  glances  of 
all  were  fixed  reverentially  upon  his  expressive 
face  and  upon  the  firm  movements  of  his  baton. 
There  was  undoubtedly  no  one  present  who  did 
not  say  to  himself,  on  seeing  the  grandeur  of 
his  appearance:  "That  which  this  man  creates 
must  indeed  be  grand  and  glorious!" 

The  lovely,  tear-moving  Larghetto  com- 
menced; a  fresh,  tender  tenor  voice  sang: 
'^Consolamini  popule  mens;''— the  beautiful 
air,  so  full  of  faith,  followed:  '^Omnis  vallis/* 
and  then  the  entire  chorus  began,  with  purity 
and  devotion,  the  '^Et  revelahitur  gloria 
Domini.^'  The  important  air  for  the  bass  voice: 

-154 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


'^Quis  proterit  cogitare  diem/^  the  splendid 
chorus  following  it,  and  the  exalted,  fervent, 
prophetic  prayer,  sung  by  a  beautiful  contralto 
voice:  *'0  tu  qui  evaiigelizas  in  Sion,  ascende 
super  montem!'^  were  listened  to  with  rapture 
by  the  auditors.  The  joyous  chorus:  ^'Par- 
vulus  enim  nobis  natus'^  died  away,  and  the 
thoughtful  Pastoral  gently  led  the  way  to  the 
grandest,  most  holy  Annunciation.  When  the 
preparatory  accords  of  the  recitative  passed 
away,  the  baton  trembled  for  a  moment  in  the 
master's  hand,  a  fearful  doubt  filled  his  heart 
with  spectre-like  dread.  The  pallor  of  death 
spread  over  his  countenance;  cold,  heavy  drops 
stood  upon  his  forehead;  breathless  expectation 
and  the  silence  of  the  grave  prevailed.  The 
unknown  singer  hesitated  for  a  moment;  and 
then  from  her  half-opened  lips  floated,  silvery, 
clear,  and  devoutly  serious,  the  words,  so  full 
of  meaning:  **Erant  pastor es  in  ilia  regione'' 
The  baton  paused,  Handel's  face  beamed  with 
delight ;  a  voice  of  such  purity  had  never  before 
touched  his  ear.  This  was  the  voice  that  had 
spoken  to  the  shepherds  in  the  field;  this  was 
the  voice  that  he  had  heard  when  lost  in  holy 
rapture;  these  were  the  blessed  sounds  which 
floated  above  him  when  heaven  was  opened  to 
his  great  soul  and  the  dazzling  glories  of  God 

=155 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


were  unveiled  to  him.  Thus  had  he  conceived 
the  touching,  convincing,  joyous  exclamation 
in  the  words  of  the  announcing  angel:  '*qui 
est  Christus — Salvator  Christus!"  Oh,  how  this 
part  quivered  through  his  soul  and  elevated  it! 
He  regained  composure  only  when  the  heavenly 
host  exultingly  sang:  **  Gloria  in  excelsis 
Deo!" 

The  third  and  last  part  of  the  oratorio  was 
over;  the  last  tones  of  the  Agnus  Dei  had 
floated  away;  the  magnificent,  wondrous  work 
was  concluded.  Handel's  head  rested,  bent 
down  with  holiest  joy,  upon  the  music-desk; 
his  eyes  were  closed;  he  lived  only  in  the 
sounds  that  had  but  now  died  away.  He 
thought  of  the  heavenly  song  which  he  had 
heard  flow  from  the  lips  of  the  unknown— of 
the  pure  and  holy  voice  that  had  sung  his  aria 
for  him;— of  the  childlike,  innocent,  believing 
expression  she  had  given  to  the  lovely  melody: 
'*et  pascet  suum  gregem;''—of.  the  touching 
recitative  which  related  the  humiliation  and 
outrage  inflicted  upon  our  Saviour,  and  which 
spoke  of  his  sufferings  ''that  excited  not  pity." 
He  thought  of  the  lofty,  truly  divine  sorrow  in 
the  singer's  tones  when  she  announced  the 
Redeemer's  death;— of  the  joyous,  glorious 
confidence    in    the    words    and    sounds    which 

: -156 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


spoke  of  the  resurrection  of  the  Buried  One! 
And  then  the  exalted  inspiration  that  this  won- 
drous voice  kindled  in  all!  How  they  had  list- 
ened, smiling  and  astonished,  when  she  praised 
the  light  step  of  the  heavenly  messengers  of 
peace,  then  the  pleasure,  emotion,  and  the  long 
silence  of  the  chorus  after  the  singing  of  the 
air  in  the  third  part:  ^'Redemptor  mens 
vivit!"  What  jubilant  confidence,  firm  as  a 
rock,  spoke  in  those  tones !  The  Redeemer  lived 
in  this  soul,  and  thus  must  He  live  and  rise 
again  for  himself— for  all!  The  final  consol- 
ing sounds  of  the  conclusion  arose  again  in  his 
deeply  moved  heart  with  indescribable  force; 
it  seemed  that  this  last  greeting  must  remain 
forever  a  consolation  to  him— that  this  cry: 
^*8i  Deus  pro  nobis,  quis  contra  nosf  must 
ever  resound,  fresh  and  joyous,  in  his  heart— 
and  that  despondency  could  never  more  assail 
him.  **0  thou  of  little  faith,''  he  said  softly 
to  himself,  '*0  thou  desponding  one!  'Si 
Deus  pro  nobis,  quis  contra  nosf  '' 

When  Handel  arose  with  an  effort,  and 
would  have  directed  his  longing  eyes  towards 
this  pearl  of  singers,  he  found  only  the  pallid 
faces  of  the  chorus-singers,  upon  whose  fea- 
tures a  profound  emotion  was  imprinted.  The 
tapers  were    half    extinguished;  below    in  the 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


church  the  audience  were  still  kept  spell-bound 
and  motionless  by  admiration  of  the  immortal 
work,  and  the  name  of  ''Handel"  sounded  from 
a  thousand  lips  like  a  deep,  broken  sob. 

The  spot  upon  which  the  fair  being  had 
lingered  was  vacant;  the  beautiful  strange 
maiden  had  vanished.  When  and  whither?  No 
one  knew.  But  in  her  place  lay  the  significant 
salutation  of  the  angels — a  strangely  beautiful, 
odorous,  white  lily. 


:168= 


An  Amati 

**The  harp  has  grown  silent, 
The  chords  are  in  twain''.  .  , 

SOME  artists  shine  upon  us  as  do  suns; 
some  resemble  the  tranquil  stars;  while 
others  glide  along  restless  and  uncanny  as  does 
a  will-o'-the-wisp.  Their  peculiar  natures  fas- 
cinate you;  you  follow  their  wanderings  and 
their  mad  life  with  a  mixture  of  interest  and 
dread;  but  at  their  sudden  extinction  you 
remain  with  a  feeling  similar  to  that  of  a  child 
who,  after  having  been  told  a  ghost-story,  is 
left  in  the  dark. 

I  am  about  to  relate  the  history  of  one  of 
these  most  singular  artists. 

In  the  year  1750,  Podiebrad,  in  Bohemia,  was 
inhabited  by  a  handsome,  powerful  set  of  men, 
whose  forms  were  redolent  of  fire  and  life;  but 
the  handsomest  and  stateliest  of  them  all  was 
indisputably  Franz  Joseph  Anderle,  the  only 
son  of  a  rich  brewer.  When  he  knelt  in  the 
little  church  on  Sundays,  dressed  in  his  dark- 
green  velvet  doublet,  with  its  shining  silver 
buttons,    his   red   waistcoat,   his    black   velvet 

—159 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


knee-breeches,  his  carelessly  tied  cravat,  and 
his  head  (whose  dark,  clustering  curls  showed 
to  advantage  the  purity  of  his  profile  and  the 
soft  outline  of  his  mouth  and  chin)  slightly 
elevated,  then  no  young  girl  could  recite  her 
Ave  with  tranquillity  and  fervent  devotion. 
There  lay  upon  the  young  man's  brow  a  some- 
thing quite  bewitching.  His  blue  eyes  would 
often  rest  upon  the  peaceful  countenance  of 
the  Holy  Mother,  yet  seldom  did  they  bear  a 
gentle  and  pious  expression;  a  light  often 
flashed  from  them,  a  longing,  a  wild  desire,  for 
which  the  young  man's  heart  knew  no  name. 
It  was  the  restless  striving  which  is  known 
only  to  those  strangely  organized  beings  who 
are  said  to  possess  artistic  natures.  Although 
neither  Franz  Joseph  Anderle  nor  those  around 
him  suspected  it,  there  lived  within  him  a  deep 
passion  for  music— a  passion  which  made  the 
pleasures  of  youth  and  all  intercourse  with 
men  irksome  to  him.  A  little  violin  that  his 
mother  had  brought  him  from  Prague  was  the 
confidant  of  his  musical  emotions;  it  was  his 
friend,  his  joy,  his  all.  When  he  received  it,  he 
crept  into  the  farthest  corner  of  the  room  and 
endeavoured  to  entice  tones  from  it;  he  could 
not  be  separated  from  it;  he  essayed  and 
practised   until  he  could    play  a  few   melodies 

160  = 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


correctly.  He  would  run  after  every  band  of 
musicians  that  passed,  forgetting  food  and 
drink,  and  several  times  was  brought  home  half 
dead  from  exhaustion.  His  father,  the  rich 
brewer,  was  very  impatient  and  angry  at  this 
fancy  of  his  son's,  which  '^yielded  nothing;" 
his  mother,  on  the  contrary,  a  genuine  singing 
child  of  Bohemia,  was  made  very  happy  by 
observing  the  development  of  his  talent.  To 
have  a  teacher  of  the  violin  for  the  boy  was 
not  to  be  thought  of:  his  father  would  allow  no 
regular  instruction.  He  made  his  son  work 
constantly:  **that  is  the  method  to  drive  away 
such  whims,"  he  used  to  say.  It  is  true  that 
during  the  day  Joseph  obeyed  him,  without 
murmuring;  but  when  night  came  and  his 
parents  believed  him  sleeping,  he  was  out  in 
the  woods  playing  upon  his  violin  until  his  arm 
had  almost  become  paralyzed.  In  the  winter- 
time he  would  conceal  himself  in  the  barn; 
neither  cold  nor  storms  prevented  his  prac- 
tising. 

Thus  years  had  passed;  Joseph  had  often 
entreated  his  father,  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  for 
permission  to  devote  himself  entirely  to  art, 
but  the  old  man  was  inflexible.  The  young  man 
would  often  say:  **Let  me  go  out  into  the 
world  with  my  violin;  I  will  beg  my  way,  I 

u 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


will  find  a  teacher  and  become  famous."  His 
father  would  grow  so  angry  at  such  speeches 
that  Joseph  gradually  learned  to  bury  his 
wishes  in  the  inmost  recesses  of  his  breast. 

One  evening  in  August,  it  happened  that  the 
young  man  had  slipped  out,  as  usual,  with  his 
violin,  with  the  intention  of  hastening  to  his 
beloved  wood.  It  was  a  remarkably  clear, 
beautiful  moonlight  night,  and  Joseph  involun- 
tarily walked  slower,  and  lost  himself  in  con- 
templation. A  true  musical  heart  is  ever 
susceptible  to  the  charms  of  nature.  The  dis- 
tant blue  mountains  were  bathed  in  moonlight, 
and  seemed  to  draw  nearer  in  order  to  show 
their  perfumed  beauty;  the  immense  pond— 
which,  according  to  tradition,  was  unfathom- 
able—trembled slightly  beneath  the  beautiful 
veil  of  light  that  concealed  its  depth;  the  old 
trees  rustled  slightly;  the  elves  seemed  to  be 
stirring  amid  the  flowers  in  the  gardens;  and  a 
freshness,  a  perfume,  was  wafted  from  the 
forest,  rich  enough  to  strengthen  a  poor,  suf- 
fering heart  and  to  recall  it  to  the  joys  of  life. 
Suddenly  Joseph  started,  paused,  and  listened. 
The  tones  of  a  violin  sounded  from  out  a  little, 
isolated  house  situated  near  to  the  wood.  The 
hut  had  been  until  now  uninhabited.  "Whence 
came  these  sounds'?     And  what  tones!     Tones 

-163 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


such  as  Joseph  had  heard  only  in  his  dreams— 
rich,  warm,  melting,  ravishing— his  ideal— 
such  as  could  come  only  from  an  Amati.  The 
invisible  violinist  was  playing  a  popular 
melody,— his  performance  was  simple  and 
quiet,  but  his  bowing  betrayed  a  practised 
player. 

When  the  piece  was  concluded,  Joseph  rushed 
towards  the  house;  a  storm  of  conflicting  sen- 
sations swept  over  his  soul.  Through  the  open 
window  he  beheld  an  old  man  seated  by  a  table, 
upon  which  stood  a  lighted  lamp,  and  in  his 
arms  rested  the  violin  which  possessed  such 
magical  power.  The  old  man's  features  plainly 
showed  the  Israelite;  the  sad,  sharp  profile,  the 
receding  forehead,  the  clear,  restless  eye,  the 
long,  white  beard,  the  , flowing  hair,  and  the 
gentle  mouth,  produced  a  pleasant  impression. 
His  dress  consisted  of  a  long,  grey  robe,  girded 
across  the  hips  with  a  black  cord.  By  the 
window,  so  that  the  moonlight  fell  full  upon 
her,  was  seated  a  young  girl,  about  eighteen 
years  old,  the  daughter  of  the  Jew.  Her  hands 
lay  dreamily  folded  in  her  lap;  her  rich  black 
hair  was  twisted  in  a  knot  upon  the  back  of 
her  head,  and  her  face  showed  the  richest  type 
of  Oriental  beauty.  She  was  a  true  daughter 
of  Judea— pale,  slightly  bent,  as  though  bur- 

rl63  


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


dened  with  invisible  chains,  and  with  the  deep 
melancholy  expression  of  those  who  sat  by  the 
waters  of  Babylon  and  wept. 

**  Forgive  my  abrupt  entrance— but  the 
violin  has  irresistibly  attracted  me.  Whence 
comes  its  magical  tone?  Oh,  teach  me  your 
secret!*' 

With  these  hasty  words,  Joseph  Anderle 
appeared  before  the  father  and  daughter.  The 
old  man  sprang  up  and  instinctively  clasped 
his  violin  more  tightly;  Leah  stared  at  the 
young  man,  half  terrified,  half  enchanted.  How 
handsome  he  was  in  his  excitement! 

*'I  beg  you  to  have  pity  upon  me,  and  to 
give  me  instruction.  I  am  rich,  and  will  pay 
you  whatever  you  may  demand.'* 

**I  have  been  living  here  but  three  days,  and 
desired  to  rest  from  my  wandering  life;  I 
wished  neither  to  instruct  nor  to  play.  Yet,  as 
you  express  so  great  a  desire  to  learn,  I  will 
gladly  teach  you  the  little  that  I  know." 

**  Shall  I  learn  to  produce  such  tones  upon 
the  violin  as  you  have  just  done?" 

**I  scarcely  think  so,  young  man;  for  my 
violin  is  almost  a  prodigy.  It  is  a  genuine 
Amati. ' ' 

Joseph  contemplated  the  apparently  insig- 
nificant   violin    with    looks    of    reverence    and 

=164  


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


longing.  So  this  was  an  Amati!*  He  had  so 
often  heard  of  these  precious  instruments! 

*'Are  there  no  more  such  violins  to  be  had?'' 
he  inquired,  after  a  pause. 

''There  are  still  many  Amatis,  but  none  like 
this ;  my  violin  was  blessed  by  a  dying  man ! ' ' 

The  young  man,  sighing  deeply,  related  in  a 
few  words  the  story  of  his  musical  studies. 
After  some  parley  between  the  two  men,  it  was 
settled  that  Joseph  should  come  there  every 
evening  and  take  lessons  by  stealth.  Fortu- 
nately, Joseph,  being  the  son  of  a  rich  man, 
had  considerable  pocket-money,  for  the  ex- 
penditure of  which  he  was  only  obliged  to 
account  to  his  mother.  The  lessons  were  to  be 
paid  for  with  this.  The  young  man  hurried 
away  with  a  hasty  greeting,  but  not  towards 
his  home— his  heart  was  too  full;  he  must  visit 
his  dear  forest!  He  threw  himself  upon  the 
grass,  wild  with  joy,  and  dreamed  until  morn- 
ing. Of  what  did  he  dream?  Of  the  Jewess's 
wondrously  beautiful  eyes?  Ah,  no!  Of  the 
enchanting  Amati.  He  had  scarcely  glanced 
at  the  young  girl. 

The  old  Jew  Isaac  was  a  wild  natural  vir- 
tuoso of    considerable    talent.     He    had    led  a 

*  A  violin  from  the  manufactory  of  the  Amati  family, 
at  Cremona,  in  the  latter  part  of  the  sixteenth  century. 


MVSICAL  SKETCEES 


strolling  life,  had  struck  his  tent  here  and 
there,  and  had  restlessly  wandered  to  and  fro, 
letting  his  violin  be  heard  now  at  joyous  festi- 
vals, now  at  the  house  of  mourning.  As  a  boy 
he  had  wandered  about  the  world  with  a 
violinist  of  mediocrity;  had  rendered  him  the 
most  self-sacrificing  services,  had  faithfully 
shared  want  and  grief  with  him.  From  him  he 
had  learned  the  first  principles  of  violin-play- 
ing. When  his  friend  and  master  died,  from  a 
disease  of  the  chest,  he  bequeathed  him  his 
Amati,  blessed  it,  and  thanked  him  for  all  his 
care  of  him.  From  that  time  Isaac  looked  upon 
his  violin  as  his  greatest  treasure.  He  never 
allowed  it  to  leave  his  sight;  yes,  he  would 
sooner  have  given  up  wife  and  child  than  this 
sweet  comforter.  With  it  he  could  endure  all 
hardships;  it  was  his  life,  his  happiness.  When 
his  faithful  wife  Rebecca  died,  it  had  sung 
over  her  the  touching  lament  for  the  dead; 
then  he  had  taken  his  little  daughter  by  the 
hand,  and  wandered  away,  leaving  the  care  of 
the  inter-ment  to  other  hands.  There  were  days 
when  he  went  without  food,  in  order  to  nourish 
and  clothe  his  child;  then  he  would  seat  him- 
self in  some  corner,  and  draw  tones  from  his 
Amati  that  would  make  him  forget  his  hunger. 
He  often  played  until  he  became  unconscious; 

-ififi  


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


but  his  hand  would  always  clasp  the  instru- 
ment tightly,  and  when  he  felt  the  pain  in  his 
chest,  which  tormented  him  oftener  and  more 
painfully  the  older  he  grew,  he  would  stretch 
out  his  meagre  fingers,  pass  them  gently  over 
its  strings,  touch  its  bridge,  then  its  head, 
and— suffer  on  without  complaint. 

Leah,  his  beautiful  and  beloved  child,  had 
long  been  accustomed  to  look  upon  the  Amati 
with  holy  timidity  and  reverence;  it  seemed  to 
her  to  be  a  part  of  the  life  and  soul  of  her 
father.  She  listened  to  every  note  of  the  strange 
instrument  with  devotion.  In  the  night-times 
its  tones  would  pass  tremblingly  from  out  her 
father's  chamber,  penetrate  into  Leah's  little 
sleeping-room,  and  joyously  greet  her  in  her 
maidenly  dreams.  Like  the  sound  of  a  peace- 
fully flowing  stream,  they  would  quiet  her,  and 
lull  her  into  a  blissful  unconsciousness. 

Since  the  handsome  Joseph  had  become  her 
father's  pupil,  Leah's  dreams  had  taken 
another  form.  She  had  assisted  at  all  the  les- 
sons; but,  seeing  that  neither  master  nor  pupil 
took  notice  of  her,  she  gave  herself  up  with 
mind  and  soul  to  the  dangerous  pleasure  of 
watching  the  charming  varying  lights  and 
shades  of  a  passionate  soul  play  upon  the 
young  man's  brow. 

=167—  


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


By  day  she  but  looked  forward  to  his  coming 
in  the  evening.  The  young  man's  finely  chis- 
elled features  stood  ever  before  her  soul;  his 
magical  eyes  beamed  continually  upon  her. 
The  night  gave  her  no  rest.  The  sound  of  the 
violin  agitated  a  deep,  wild  sea,  whose  every 
billow  bore  upon  it  the  beloved  form;  the  dear 
face  smiled  upon  her,  and  two  arms  extended 
themselves .  longingly  towards  her.  But  when 
she  would  bend  forward  to  clasp  the  beautiful 
image,  it  would  fade  away  like  a  shadow— ever 
near  and  yet  ever  unattainable.  The  more 
glowing  the  heart,  the  more  concealed  its  love! 
Leah's  countenance  betrayed  naught  of  her 
struggles  and  contests;  the  summer,  autumn, 
and  winter  passed  away,  and  the  spring  ap- 
proached. Then  she  felt  for  the  first  time 
that  this  passion,  in  which  her  whole  existence 
was  cast,  was  gradually  consuming  her  body. 
This  feverish  thrill  of  delight  when  Joseph's 
step  was  heard  from  afar,  this  stupefying 
anxiety  when  he  remained  absent  longer  than 
usual,  the  long,  painful  hours  when  she  did 
not  see  him,  these  nights  filled  with  wild 
dreams,  were  ruining  her  health.  Leah  re- 
joiced at  the  increasing  weakness  of  her  body. 
There  are  moments  in  which  hope  would  be 
madness,  in    which    there   is  but  one  consoling 

-168  ==^ 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


angel  for  the  bleeding  heart— the  thought  of 
death. 

Joseph  had  no  suspicion  of  this.  He  scarcely 
noticed  the  young  girl;  he  bowed  to  her  when 
he  came  and  when  he  departed,  and  occasion- 
ally would  make  some  indifferent  inquiry  of 
her;  that  was  all.  He  appeared  to  have  but 
one  thought— to  learn.  His  progress  was  such 
that  it  actually  terrified  his  teacher.  Notwith- 
standing his  success,  the  young  man  remained 
sad  and  gloomy;  an  indescribable  melancholy 
was  seen  both  in  his  face  and  manner.  Leah 
took  his  secret  sorrow  to  heart,  and  thus  suf- 
fered doubly. 

One  evening  Joseph  said  suddenly  to  old 
Isaac:  *'The  more  I  learn,  the  more  miserable 
I  become.  Of  what  avail  is  my  skill  if  my 
tones  always  remain  weak  and  without  charm? 
My  violin  is  loathsome  to  me;  its  groaning 
makes  me  ill.  Why  did  I  hear  your  Amati?" 
He  threw  his  instrument  violently  upon  the 
table,  approached  the  Jew,  and,  trembling 
with  excitement,  he  whispered :  * '  I  must  say  it 
to  you,  else  my  heart  will  break.  You  alone 
can  cure  my  grief.  You  alone  can  make  me 
well  and  joyous.  I  entreat  you,  for  the  sake  of 
my  poor  soul,  sell  me  your  violin ! ' ' 

The  Jew  became  pale  as  a  corpse,  and  clasped 

=:169 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


his  fingers  convulsively  around  his  beloved  in- 
strument. 

*'Sell  it  to  me,  I  implore  you!  See  me  on 
my  knees  before  you!  Have  compassion!  Since 
the  evening  that  I  first  heard  its  seductive 
sounds,  I  have  struggled  with  an  insane  long- 
ing for  its  possession.  I  cannot  free  myself 
from  its  tones;  I  hear  them  ever,  day  and 
night.  It  will  drive  me  mad.  The  Amati  has 
bewitched  me;  I  would  sell  my  eternal  happi- 
ness for  the  sake  of  this  enchantress.  Speak, 
demand  what  you  will;  I  will  give  you  all  my 
property;  for  I  shall  be  of  age  in  two  months. 
I  would  rather  be  a  beggar,  and  wander  forth 
in  the  wide  world  with  the  Amati,  than  be  a 
rich  man  without  it." 

^'Do  you  know  that  you  demand  my  lifef'^ 

^'Old  man,  your  days  are  numbered;  how 
short  the  time  that  you  have  yet  to  live.  You 
are  weary,  and  should  pass  the  evening  of  your 
life  in  repose.  I  would  assist  you  and  your 
daughter.  With  my  youth  that  torments  me, 
with  my  vigour  that  makes  me  suffer  martyr- 
dom—how many  years  have  I  before  me!  I 
feel  that  I  cannot  live  without  the  Amati." 

*'When  I  have  passed  away,  the  violin  shall 
become  yours;  I  swear  it  by  the  God  of  my 


:170^ 


MUSICAL  SKETCBES 


fathers.  But  so  long  as  old  Isaac  breathes,  no 
emperor,  no  king,  is  rich  enough  to  buy  it  from 
him." 

** Isaac,  do  not  drive  me  mad!  I  must  pos- 
sess the  Amati ! ' ' 

**  Would  you  kill  me  like  a  dog,  in  order  to 
rob  me?     If  so,  it  would  become  your  curse!" 

*'You  will  not— really  not?  Is  this  your  last 
word?" 

*'My  last.     I  cannot  sell  the  violin!" 

**Then  God  help  me;  you  will  never  see  me 
more ! '  * 

With  these  words  he  turned,  and  walked 
away. 

"Never  again?"  murmured  a  voice  that 
sounded  like  that  of  a  dying  person.  It  was 
Leah  who  spoke.  She  arose  mechanically,  fol- 
lowed, and  overtook  him  at  the  house-door. 
Joseph  stopped.  The  young  girl  laid  her  hand 
heavily  upon  his  shoulder,  looked  at  him 
wildly,  and  asked  him,  slowly,  accentuating 
each  word:  "Will  you  remain  should  the 
Amati  become  yours?  Will  you  be  happy— 
quite  happy?" 

The  young  man  gazed  long  and  inquiringly 
at  the  speaker.  She  trembled  under  his  glance, 
and  withdrew  her  hand.    A  veil  was  rent  from 


:171: 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


before  Joseph's  eyes.  He  bent  down  to  her, 
and  whispered:  '*Leah,  do  you  love  me?" 
She  gave  a  faint  cry,  and  would  have  fled. 
Joseph  held  her  fast.  A  wild  joy  darted 
through  his  heart.  Quick  as  thought  he  wound 
his  arm  around  Leah's  slender  form,  and  said, 
in  a  low  voice :  ^ '  Girl,  I  will  return  your  love 
if  you  will  venture  for  me  that  which  I  sus- 
pect! Have  you  the  courage  to  make  not  me 
alone,  but  both  of  us,  happy?" 

Leah  raised  her  black  eyes,  and  her  glance 
was  so  ravishing  and  convincing  that  the 
young  man  felt  deeply  moved,  and  bent  down 
to  kiss  the  charming  creature.  The  young  girl 
checked  him  gravely  and  hastily,  and  said: 
''Await  me  every  evening  at  the  entrance  of 
the  forest;  as  soon  as  I  can  persuade  my  father 
to  consent  to  your  wish,  I  will  bring  you  the 
Amati. ' ' 

*'And  if  he  remain  inexorable?" 
''You  shall  be  happy;  trust  to  me." 
Joseph  waited  long.  Night  after  night 
passed;  Leah  came  not.  The  young  man 
became  ever  more  impatient;  this  continual 
wavering  between  hope  and  fear  irritated  him 
to  the  utmost  degree.  Those  around  him  suf- 
fered much;  he  was  so  cross  and  violent  that 
all  avoided  him.     There   were  moments  when 

-172  


MVSICAL  SKETCHES 


to  attain  his  object  he  would  have  been  capable 
of  murdering  the  old  Jew;  there  were  others 
when  he  would  have  liked  to  kill  himself,  so  as 
not  feel  the  burning  longing  which  drove  him 
restlessly  to  and  fro.  On  the  ninth  day  Leah 
came.  It  was  almost  daybreak.  Thick  clouds 
had  gathered,  and  the  day  threatened  to  be 
overcast.  A  cool  wind  agitated  the  folds  of 
the  long  black  dress  that  the  Jewess  wore.  She 
walked  slowly  and  solemnly.  The  cold  grey 
light  of  morning  made  her  features  appear  so 
pale  that  Joseph  was  terrified.  She  carried 
the  Amati  in  her  hands,  and  extended  it  to  him 
from  afar.  When  he  took  it  from  her,  a 
violent  shudder  ran  through  her  frame,  and 
she  said,  moving  her  lips  with  difficulty: 
*'Thcre— there— take  it,  and  be  happy;  love 
me,  for  now  I  have  nothing  but  youf 

''What  do  you  say?" 

**My  father  is  dead!  It  was  so, to  be!  He 
withstood  my  fervent  entreaties;  he  withstood 
my  tears,  my  despair.  To-night,  at  midnight, 
whilst  he  was  sleeping  deeply  and  gently,  I 
robbed  him  of  his  treasure.  I  listened  at  his 
chamber-door;  all  remained  still.  Then  I 
heard  groaning.  I  ran  to  return  him  his  com- 
forter. I  reached  the  bedside  and  leaned  over 
the  poor  old  man:  it  was  too  late!     He  only 

=178 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


recognized  me,  and  with  his  last  breath  called 
me  murderess!  Keep  your  word,  for  I  have 
robbed— murdered— for  you!'' 

She  fell  fainting  into  his  arms. 

Joseph  raised  her.  ''Unhappy  one,"  he  said, 
coldly,  "what  have  you  done?  By  heaven,  I 
did  not  wish  this!  Why  did  you  not  let  me 
die,  instead  of  stainmg  your  soul  and  mine 
with  a  horrible  murder?  The  prize  is  too 
trifling  for  so  great  a  sin ! " 

Leah  started.  She  convulsively  pressed  her 
hand  upon  her  heart;  a  fearful  change  passed 
over  her  countenance.  She  cast  a  look  upon 
the  man  whom  she  had  loved  so  unutterably, 
even  unto  guilt— a  look  that  caused  Joseph  to 
forget  every  thing,  even  the  possession  of  the 
Amati.  Then  she  said,  with  the  calmness  of 
death:  "Father,  you  are  avenged  upon  your 
murderess— she  has  atoned  for  her  crime!" 

She  turned  proudly,  and,  with  a  firm  step, 
walked  towards  the  house  and  disappeared  in 
the  doorway. 


Twelve  years  had  passed  since  that  fatal 
morning.  Franz  Joseph  Anderle  was  much 
altered.  He  had  become  an  opulent  man;  he 
had  taken  his  father's  brewery,  had  married  a 
rich  wife— one  chosen  by  his  parents— and  was 

-174  


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


the  father  of  two  children.  He  could  scarcely 
be  called  handsome  now;  his  brow  was  gloomy, 
his  eye  was  dim.  He  was  never  seen  to  smile; 
he  never  partook  of  any  pleasure;  never 
jested  or  played  with  his  children.  He  was 
gentle  with  all,  but  silent  and  secret  as  the 
grave.  The  day  on  which  he  received  the 
Amati,  he  had  been  attacked  by  a  violent  ner- 
vous fever,  and  besieged  by  the  wildest  fancies. 
He  would  not  allow  his  dearly-bought  violin  to 
be  taken  from  him.  It  was  fearful  to  see  the 
sick  man  rise  up  in  bed  and  play  heart-rending 
melodies  upon  it.  At  these  times  his  friends 
would  forsake  the  room,  overpowered  by  an 
insurmountable  feeling  of  horror  and  dismay. 
His  mother  alone  remained,  and,  kneeling 
beside  the  bed,  would  pray  until  the  last  dread- 
inspiring  tone  had  died  away.  When  Joseph 
recovered,  he  inquired  for  Leah.  None  had 
seen  her;  but  one  of  her  little  shoes  had  been 
found  upon  the  brink  of  the  deep  pond.  The 
all  too  ardent  heart  was  at  rest. 

Then  Joseph,  with  a  shudder,  locked  up  his 
Amati,  and  vowed  never  to  draw  his  bow 
again.  He  endeavoured  to  live  like  others;  but 
his  heart  was  almost  broken;  his  life  resembled 
that  of  a  rose-tree  that  has  been  planted  in  a 
foreign    clime    and    which    bears    thorns     and 

=175 


MVSICAL  SKETCHES 


leaves,  not  blossoms.  He  wrestled  with  his 
ever-increasing  artistic  impulses,  until  the 
power  of  resistance  left  him— his  genius  con- 
quered. He  took  out  his  Amati,  kissed  it  as  he 
would  have  done  a  holy  relic,  and  secretly  for- 
sook his  house  and  home.  He  wandered  to 
Poland,  took  lodgings  in  Warsaw,  practised 
and  listened  much,  and  then  suddenly  ap- 
peared with  great  success  in  public.  His 
technical  skill  was  wonderful,  and  the  gloomy 
passion  of  his  execution  exerted  an  endless 
charm  upon  his  listeners.  The  mere  tone  of 
his  instrument  possessed  a  magical  power. 
They  endeavoured  to  retain  Franz  Joseph 
Anderle  in  Warsaw,  and  many  advantageous 
offers  were  made  him;  but  it  seemed  as  though 
a  portion  of  the  restless  nomadic  nature  of  his 
dead  teacher  had  passed  from  his  violin  into 
the  young  man.  He  could  not  remain  long  in 
any  place.  Neither  ambition  nor  the  prospect 
of  gain  could  retain  him  more  than  a  few  days 
in  any  one  spot.  His  name  became  rapidly 
known,  and  his  journeys  through  Poland  and 
Hungary  resembled  a  triumphal  procession. 
The  most  distinguished  people  thronged  around 
him;  they  overwhelmed  him  with  tokens  of 
their  favour;  whoever  'heard  him  play  idolized 
him.     Joseph  was  at  first  intoxicated  with  this 

-176  ==■ 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


life.  His  sombre  brow  grew  cheerful;  he  al- 
lowed himself  to  be  carried  away  on  the  bil- 
lows of  applause,  which  rose  ever  higher  and 
higher  about  him,  and  enjoyed  all  the  pleas- 
ures that  beset  his  path.  He  forgot  his  home. 
Wife  and  children  were  to  him  but  shadowy 
forms.  Now  he  could  live  for  his  art,  and  he 
possessed  the  Amati;  the  glowing  wishes  of  his 
heart  were  fulfilled.  In  the  midst  of  the  in- 
toxication of  his  changeful  life,  the  spectre  of 
satiety  would  often  glide  by  him,  in  the  shape 
of  the  beautiful,  sorrowful  Leah,  and  touch 
his  heart;  his  wild  joy  would  be  chilled  and 
become  converted  into  misanthropic  sadness. 
Whilst  the  name  of  Franz  Joseph  Anderle 
became  world-renowned,  and  many  hundreds 
longed  to  gaze  upon  this  new  star  in  the 
heaven  of  Art,  the  famous  artist  himself  be- 
came each  day  more  ill  and  more  gloomy.  The 
fear  that  some  one  would  steal  his  Amati,  and 
with  it  the  soul  of  his  art,  at  last  became  a 
monomania  with  him.  He  watched  the  Amati 
with  greater  anxiety  and  care  than  the  old 
man  had  done;  sleep  never  visited  his  eyes. 
Leah,  the  ardently  loving,  wondrously  beauti- 
ful Leah,  appeared  to  him  in  tearful  beauty. 
He  called  her  by  name,  with  an  expression  of 
deep  repentance  and  tenderness;  he  extended 

■—177 

13 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


his  arms  towards  the  airy  image:  in  vain— it 
only  pointed  to  the  violin  and  wrung  its  hands 
in  anxious  entreaty.  Then  he  would  press  the 
Amati  firmly  in  his  arms,  and  sink  in  semi- 
unconsciousness  upon  the  cushions  of  his  sofa. 
Such  scenes  were  repeated  at  ever  shorter  in- 
tervals; to  escape  from  this  torturing  appari- 
tion, he  changed  ever  more  frequently  the 
place  of  his  abode.  The  physicians  shook 
their  heads,  spoke  of  a  different  climate,  of 
return  to  his  own  home;  but  they  did  not  help 
him.  Thus  passed  many  sad  weeks.  Anderle's 
condition  remained  unchanged.  Suddenly  the 
artist  disappeared.  The  newspapers  were  filled 
with  inquiries  and  conjectures;  the  whole  musi- 
cal world  took  the  liveliest  interest  in  this 
enigmatical  flight.  All  endeavoured  to  find  the 
solution  of  this  wonderful  occurrence.  Long  in 
vain.  At  last  the  following  notice  appeared  in 
the  Bohemian  journals: 

*'The  wanderer  has  returned;  the  mother- 
country  has  reclaimed  her  gifted  son.  Franz 
Joseph  Anderle's  body  now  rests  in  the  bosom 
of  his  native  land.  Bohemia  has  heard  his 
swan's  song.  In  Podiebrad,  his  birthplace, 
there  stands  near  the  wood,  an  old,  dilapi- 
dated hut,  half  in  ruins,  which  has  been  ten- 


=178= 


■MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


antless  for  many  years.  The  place  was 
avoided;  for  people  said  that  it  was  haunted. 
On  last  Sunday  evening  the  inhabitants  of  Po- 
diebrad  heard  strange,  penetrating  sounds 
that  proceeded  seemingly  from  the  interior  of 
the  hut.  They  assembled  around  it  and  lis- 
tened; they  heard  the  tones  of  a  magnificent 
violin.  None  ventured  to  open  the  door;  but 
they  whispered  about  an  old  Jew  who  had 
formerly  lived  and  died  there.  Several  people 
even  declared  that  this  Sunday  was  the  anni- 
versary of  his  death.  At  last  they  ran  for 
the  chaplain.  The  reverend  father  came;  he 
sprinkled  the  threshold  with  holy  water,  and 
prayed  silently.  The  enchanting  song  of  the 
violin  continued— now  wild,  gloomy,  horrible, 
now  so  unspeakably  soft  and  touching  that 
tears  ran  down  the  listeners'  cheeks.  Sud- 
denly, in  the  midst  of  the  softest,  the  most 
beautiful  adagio,  the  melody  ceased.  A  vio- 
lent crash  was  heard — then  a  hollow  fall.  They 
rushed  in,  and  found  the  celebrated  violinist 
Franz  Joseph  Anderle  lying  dead  upon  the 
floor.  His  Amati,  shattered  to  pieces,  lay 
beside  him.  He  would  not  give  his  beloved  to 
any  other  living  soul,  and  so  took  her  away 
with  him  in  death.     His  countenance  bore  an 


:179: 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


expression  of  peace  and  a  transfigured  repose, 
such  as  it  had  never  worn  whilst  living — the 
fulfilment  of  the  longing  that  formerly  beamed 
in  his  eyes.  God,  in  his  eternal  mercy,  had 
given  rest  to  this  troubled  soul.'* 


:180= 


Fallen  Stars 

**The  swan's  song  is  dying  away, 

Leaves  and  blossoms  have  faded  in  night. 
How  still  and  dark  is  the  day! 

Even  the  stars  no  longer  are  bright.'' 

Heine. 

ONCE  upon  a  time  there  was  a  wondrously 
beautiful  Birch-Tree  lihat  stood  upon  a 
turf  carpet  that  was  soft  as  velvet,  and  em- 
broidered in  gay  colours.  He  gazed  boldly 
and  freely  out  into  the  world.  At  his  feet 
there  sparkled  a  lovely  Brook,  clear  as  crystal. 
One  can  scarcely  find  a  more  enchanting  sight 
than  a  hardy  birch-tree,  with  its  slender  silver 
stems  and  its  light-green  leaves,  whose  fair 
cheeks  are  fervently  kissed  by  the  zephyr.  In 
the  birch-tree  is  found  the  true  poetry  of  the 
forest.  The  Tree  of  which  I  speak  was  ex- 
ceedingly stately;  far  and  near  there  grew 
none  handsomer;  far  and  near  there  flowed  no 
little  Brook  more  pleasing  to  the  sight.  The 
Spring  knew  this,  as  well  as  all  the  flowers 
and  tre^s  in  the  country;  the  slender  Tree  and 
the    Brook    alone    knew    it    not.     An    eternal 

181  = 


MUSICAL  SKETCW^S 


Spring  lay  upon  the  Birch-Tree's  head;  there- 
fore it  was  that  his  branches  rustled  so  inces- 
santly. Magical  melodies  floated  from  them; 
they  sank  upon  the  earth,  dropped  into  the 
open  hearts  of  the  flowers,  and  sallied  far  out 
into  the  land.  The  tops  of  the  trees  shook 
from  pure  joy;  and  even  serious  old  fir  and 
pine  trees,  upon  whose  brows  icy  Winter  sat 
like  unto  a  crown,  forgot  their  snowy  locks, 
and  thought  that  the  summer  of  their  youth 
had  returned.  It  often  seemed  as  though  the 
woods  and  all  surrounding  nature  must  de- 
voutly and  solemnly  worship  the  Tree,  so  rich 
and  holy  were  the  melodious  strains  that  he 
emitted.  Of  all  listeners,  the  Brook  was,  with- 
out doubt,  the  happiest!  Was  it  not  she  who 
was  first  to  hear  every  tone,  every  harmonious 
sigh,  yes,  every  breath,  of  the  beloved  Tree? 
Did  not  the  Birch-Tree  take  delight  in  mirror- 
ing his  form  in  her  silvery,  limpid  waters? 
Did  she  not  echo  the  lovely  sounds  that  fell 
like  dew  from  his  boughs?  The  tiny  Brook 
sang  also;  her  little  songs  were  charming, 
clear,  and  full  of  soul,  and  the  handsome  Tree 
nodded  his  head  joyously  and  smilingly  when 
he  heard  them.  Enchanting  indeed  were  the 
dialogues  between  the  Birch-Tree  and  the 
Brook;    then    the    glorious     Tree     inclined    his 

-182  1^=: 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


head  mysteriously  deeper  and  ever  deeper — it 
seemed  as  though  the  Brook  was  the  only  one 
in  whom  he  confided— and  the  golden  light  of 
his  leaves  fell  like  sparks  into  the  crystal 
water.  The  Brook  bubbled  high  into  the  air, 
and  entwined  her  harp-like  accords  with  the 
song  of  the  Birch-Tree.  Often  one  could  not 
tell  whether  the  magical  melodies  were  soar- 
ing upwards  or  floating  downwards — whether 
the  sweet  strains  proceeded  from  the  Brook 
or  from  the  Tree.  They  were  never  alone: 
beetles,  birds,  and  butterflies  came  from  far 
and  near  to  listen  to  them.  It  sometimes  hap- 
pened that  a  stout  humble-bee,  following  its 
natural  disposition,  would  grumble,  and,  put- 
ting on  a  censorious  air,  would  say:  *'It 
would  sound  much  better  if  the  little  Brook 
would  murmur  in  another  tone,"  or  ''that  a 
slower  movement  would  be  an  improvement;" 
or  a  spiteful,  envious  woodpecker,  proud  of  his 
own  chopping  profession,  would  assert  that 
*'the  Birch-Tree  sang  entirely  too  much,  and 
would  certainly  injure  himself;  his  voice  was 
not  nearly  so  powerful  as  it  had  been."  Other 
speeches  of  the  same  nature  were  made;  but 
the  grateful  acclamations  of  countless  listeners 
completely  drowned  their  buzzing  and  croaking. 
Thus  they  lived,  thus  they  loved,  thus  they 

=183  


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


sang,  day  by  day;  neither  could  exist  without 
the  other,  and  the  lives  of  both,  although  ap- 
parently separated,  formed  one  harmonious 
whole.  Even  in  their  dreams  they  whispered 
of  each  other.  The  little  Brook  spoke  to  the 
flowers  of  the  wondrous  Tree,  and  then  it 
seemed  as  though  the  Tree  sang  more  bliss- 
fully, for  the  pure  Brook  declaimed  so  glori- 
ously and  so  truthfully!  And  the  blossoms 
gazed  upon  the  Brook  admiringly,  and  bowed 
their  heads  as  she  flowed  by;  but  the  rose  of 
love,  more  daring  than  they,  threw  herself 
passionately  upon  the  clear  one^s  breast,  and 
the  little  Brook  rambled  on  more  joyously, 
glistening  in  her  rosy  hue. 

The  dear  angels  who  dwell  above  us  in  the 
blue-covered  Paradise  gazed  also  upon  the 
charming  pleasing  sports  of  the  Tree  and 
Brook,  and  never  wearied  of  beholding  their 
love  for  each  other.  '*Ah,"  said  they,  ''would 
that  we  had  these  two  dear,  beautiful  ones  in 
our  garden  in  Heaven ! ' '  And  the  smiles  that 
they  cast  upon  earth  were  so  longing  that  the 
little  flowers'  eyes  filled  with  tears.  And  the 
dear  Lord  gave  ear  to  the  wishes  of  these 
forms  of  light,  and  said  to  the  mouth  of  the 
Sun:  ** Glowing  one,  give  thy  softest  kiss  to 
the  clear  little  Brook,  and  let  her  flow,  even 

184 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


more  limpid  than  now,  in  the  meadows  of  our 
Heaven!  In  place  of  the  flowers  of  earth, 
angels  with  their  golden  locks  shall  bow  before 
her/'  **And  the  glorious,  wondrous  TreeT' 
asked  the  beautiful  angels.  **He  shall  follow 
his  fair  sisterly  companion,"  said  the  dear 
Lord;  ''for  these  two  are  ever  one!'' 

And  the  mouth  of  the  Sun  suddenly  kissed  the 
pure,  lively,  bubbling  Brook,  even  whilst  she  was 
singing  the  praises  of  the  Birch-Tree  to  a  circle 
of  listening  flowers.  The  waters  of  the  little 
Brook  dried  beneath  the  power  of  this  fiery 
kiss,  beneath  these  scorching  rays;  the  unfad- 
ing, imperishable  rose  of  love  bowed  mourning 
over  her  grave. 

And  the  handsome  Tree? 

When  the  lips  of  his  loving  sisterly  com- 
panion grew  silent,  when  her  bright  eyes 
closed,  and  when  her  soul— that  pure  mirror 
of  the  Tree — had  departed,  then  his  branches 
drooped  and  sank,  the  shining  gold  of  his 
luxuriant  leaves  became  dim,  and  fell  down  in 
pearly  tears.  His  fresh  green  faded,  all  joy 
forsook  him;  then  his  beauty,  then  his 
strength,  and  at  last  his  life,  abandoned  him. 
The  proud,  sunny,  wondrous  Tree  died. 

Would  that  I  had  merely  related  a  fairy 
legend  to  you;  but  the  brother  and  sister,  the 

-185 


MVSICAL  SKETCHES 


Birch-Tree  and  the  Brook,  really  lingered 
upon  our  earth,  and  sang  there,  in  the  form  of 
two  human  beings.  The  blessed  tree  with  his 
spring-like  freshness,  with  whose  sweet  songs 
the  poetry  of  the  woods  was  silenced,  was 
called  by  us  Felix  Mendelssohn.  And  the 
wondrous  little  Brook  was  Fanny  Hensel, 
about  whose  brow  the  beaming  diadem  of  Art 
was  wound — a  loving  wife,  a  tender  mother, 
the  glorious  sister  and  most  intimate  friend  of 
the  early-departed  one. 


:186: 


A  First  Love 

*^In  the  cloister-garden  wandering, 
While  the  clouded  moon  shone  sorrowing, 
A  maiden  pale,  and  filled  with  gentle  fears; 
From  her  full  eyelashes  fell  love's  tender  tears/' 

Uhland. 

LATE  in  the  afternoon  of  a  hot  June  day 
a  frightful  storm  gathered  over  Vienna 
and  its  charming  environs.  Masses  of  black 
clouds  looked  threateningly  down,  flash  after 
flash  of  lightning  darted  through  the  sky,  and 
the  thunder  rolled  fearfully  above.  At  last 
the  anger  of  the  invisible  giant  seemed  ap- 
peased, his  voice  became  more  feeble,  and  from 
his  flaming  eyes  fell  the  heavy  tear-drops  of  a 
refreshing  rain.  By  degrees  the  sky  became 
clear,  sparkling  little  stars  ventured  forth,  and 
at  last  Mother  Moon  came  victoriously  sailing 
along  with  her  bright  mantle  of  light,  as 
though  she  would  announce  to  all  mankind: 
*  ^  Be  tranquil !    I  am  here  ;  all  is  over. ' ' 

The  windows,  and  even  the  shutters,  of  a 
tall,  narrow  house  that  lay  quite  hidden  in  a 
small    street,    were    tightly    closed.     A    light 

-187 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


burned  in  one  of  its  little  rooms,  and  two 
female  forms  were  seated  in  its  darkest  corner, 
clinging  to  each  other.  They  were  sisters, 
young  girls,  one  aged  eighteen,  the  other  nine- 
teen. They  were  the  only  children  of  an  in- 
dustrious, quiet  citizen,  whose  sign-board,  with 
its  showy,  richly  coloured  picture,  showed  that 
he  belonged  to  the  honest  fraternity  of  hair- 
dressers. The  taller  of  the  maidens  arose, 
opened  the  windows  and  shutters,  extinguished 
the  candle,  and  said,  soothingly:  ''Come, 
Doretta;  no  more  childish  fears;  the  storm  has 
passed  over  without  harming  us.  Thanks  to 
the  Holy  Mother!  Come  to  the  window,  and 
tarry  not.  It  is  lovely  without!"  And 
Doretta  went.  The  moonlight  shone  upon  their 
young  faces,  rejoiced  at  their  aspect,  and 
cared  not  to  leave  them.  Doretta,  the  younger 
of  the  two,  had  dark,  curling  hair,  a  round, 
full,  brown  face,  flashing  eyes,  and  a  little 
mouth,  as  red  as  a  cherry.  Her  rather  full 
figure  was  under  the  medium  height,  and  her 
movements  were  quick  and  full  of  hidden  pas- 
sion. Johanna,  the  elder  sister,  looked  like  a 
lily  of  the  valley,  or  a  hluet,  so  delicate  and 
white  was  the  colour  of  her  face,  throat, 
and  hands,  so  large,  clear,  and  of  so  deep  a 
blue  were  her  eyes.     Her  head  was  covered  by 

-188  =^^ 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


the  little  snow-white  cap  worn  at  that  time  by 
the  citizens'  daughters  in  Vienna.  It  was  the 
year  1759,  and  the  powder,  which  was  fash- 
ionable then,  lightly  touched  the  golden  blonde 
of  her  luxuriant  locks. 

After  a  pause,  the  soft  voice  of  the  slender 
Johanna  resumed:  *' Where  can  Haydn  be? 
He  is  usually  home  long  before  this  hour. 
When  the  storm  arose,  may  the  gracious 
Mother  have  guided  him  to  some  place  of 
refuge!"  Doretta  answered  not;  her  bosom 
heaved  uneasily,  and  her  dark  eyes  seemed  as 
though  they  would  pierce  through  the  dis- 
tance. The  honest  citizen  and  friseur  Keller 
then  entered— a  lively  little  man,  with  sharp 
features,  and  restless,  although  friendly,  grey 
eyes.  He  held  a  curly  wig,  which  he  was 
busily  sprinkling  with  powder,  and  said: 
*'Well,  dear  children,  has  the  young  lad  our 
lodger  not  yet  returned  ?  He  is  not  in  his  little 
attic,  for  I  have  just  been  there.  I  thought  he 
was  with  you.  It  is  singular  how  dear  the 
young  scamp,  the  merry  musician,  has  become 
to  me!  I  trouble  myself  about  him  as  a  father 
would  for  his  son,  if  he  remain  out  an  hour 
later  than  usual.  And  if  I  did  not  trouble 
myself,  my  girls  would.  Heaven  knows,  he 
has  bewitched  us  all!     Is  it  not  so,  eh?"  he 

=rl89 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


concluded,  laughing.  A  charming  blush  was 
Johanna's  answer;  Doretta  muttered  a  few  un- 
intelligible words,  tossed  her  head  haughtily, 
and  left  the  window. 

''Who  knows  where  he  may  be  staying,  the 
strange  lad?"  meditatively  continued  the 
father;  ''perhaps  the  ugly  old  Italian  singing- 
master — what  is  his  name?  Porpel "     "Por- 

pora,  papa,"  gently  interposed  Johanna. 
"Well,  I  do  not  care;  Porpora  has  carried  him 
away  again,  and  he  is  copying  music  for  him. 
By  Saint  Joseph,  it  is  really  almost  impossible 
to  believe  all  that  Haydn  does  for  these  mu- 
sicians, as  well  as  for  his  own  pupils!  He 
runs  about  all  day,  like  a  hunted  deer,  from 
one  to  the  other,  ready  to  render  any  service. 
I  believe  that  if  Master  Gluck  (of  whom  they 
talk  so  much  now)  would  play  for  him,  he 
would  consent  to  blacken  his  boots.  The  lad 
once  said  to  me:  'Joseph  Haydn  will  do  any 
thing  for  dear  Music's  sake!'  But,  with  all 
his  services,  all  his  zeal,  his  playing  at  Porpel *s 
singing-lessons,  and  his  compositions,  he  does 
not  make  a  kreutzer!  No  one  pays  him,  for 
he  asks  for  nothing!  So  long  as  he  has  lived 
with  us— and  that  has  been  a  long  time— I 
have  not  received  a  penny  for  board  or  lodg* 
ing.     Thank  Heaven,  I  can  wait  for  it!     Have 

=190 


HAYDN 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


you  ever  observed  that  the  young  man  troubled 
himself  about  his  poverty,  or  that  he  strove 
to  earn  something?  Have  you  ever  seen  him 
with  a  care-worn  face,  or  even  with  a  melan- 
choly look?  No;  he  enters  the  house  with 
so  proud  a  step  that  one  might  suppose  that 
our  most  gracious  emperor  had  presented  him 
with  all  his  realm!  And  if  one  inquires,  in 
astonishment:  *Well,  Haydn,  what  piece  of 
good  fortune  has  befallen  you?'  he  laughs  so 
merrily  that  one's  heart  bounds  with  joy,  and 
says:  *Porpora  has  praised  me;'  or  *Gluck 
patted  my  cheek;'  or:  'I  have  found  a  beauti- 
ful flower;'  or:  'the  sky  was  so  gloriously  blue 
to-day,  and  the  sun  shone  so  brightly ! '  Does 
he  not  sit  upstairs  in  his  garret,  before  his  old, 
worm-eaten  spinet,  as  though  he  /ere  seated 
upon  a  throne,  and  forget — with  the  droll 
sonatas  of  the  organist  Bach,  of  whom  he 
speaks  so  often— to  eat  and  drink?  Always 
with  those  ever  merry  eyes!  When  the  young 
man  comes  into  my  room  and  says  *good 
morning'  to  me,  I  feel  as  though  he  had  cast 
a  bouquet  at  my  heart,  and  I  am  obliged  to 
restrain  myself  so  as  not  to  throw  my  arms 
around  his  neck.  Children,  I  tell  you,  God 
looks  with  marked  favour  upon  this  Joseph 
Haydn;   he   will   either   accomplish   som,ething 

-191  


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


wonderful,  or  he  will  die  early.  One  of  the 
two  things  will  certainly  take  place!" 

Scarcely  had  these  prophetic  words  escaped 
from  the  eager  speaker's  lips,  when  a  gentle 
knock  was  heard  at  the  door,  and  he  hastily 
called:  ^'Come  in!"  Joseph  Haydn  appeared 
upon  the  threshold.  His  thin  garments,  as  well 
as  his  handsome  light-brown  hair,  were  drip- 
ping with  water;  he  was  trembling  in  every 
limb  from  cold  and  wet;  but  his  slight  form 
was  triumphantly  drawn  up  to  its  full  height, 
and  his  lovely,  childlike  countenance  beamed 
with  such  feverish  joy,  that  Johanna  sprang  up 
anxiously,  and,  running  to  him,  inquired,  in  a 
tremulous  voice:  *' Haydn,  what  is  the  matter 
with  you?  What  has  happened?"  ''Oh, 
something  wonderful,  dearest  Johanna,"  en- 
thusiastically exclaimed  the  youth— ''some- 
thing quite  delightful!  Only  listen!  Listen, 
Father  Keller;  and  you  also,  Doretta!"  Then 
he  drew  the  struggling  Doretta  gently  into  the 
middle  of  the  room,  and  spoke  quickly  and 
excitedly : 

"This  afternoon,  I  remained  rather  late 
with  a  scholar  of  mine,  into  whose  heart,  head, 
and  fingers  sweet  music  does  not  enter  rightly. 
I  had  promised  Master  Porpora  to  stop  at  his 
house  at  seven  o'clock  this  evening,  in  order  to 

192 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


receive  some  new  airs  that  I  wished  to  look 
over,  so  as  to  be  able  to  accompany  them  well 
at  the  master's  next  singing-lesson.  Porpora's 
dwelling  was  very  far  from  my  pupil's  house. 
I  hurried  thither,  but  the  master  was  not  at 
home.  After  patiently  waiting  an  hour  for 
him,  I  departed,  intending  to  return.  I  loit- 
ered a  short  time  about  the  gates.  It  was 
warm  and  sultry;  not  a  breath  of  air  was 
stirring,  the  flowers  drooped  their  little  heads, 
the  trees  scarcely  breathed,  and  there  was  not 
a  bird  to  be  seen.  Glancing  up  at  the  sky,  I 
perceived  that  the  blessing-bringing  hand  of 
the  Lord  was  approaching,  and  I  heard  from 
afar  the  rumbling  of  the  thunder.  Thinking 
of  your  anxiety,  I  hastened  my  steps,  and 
almost  flew,  in  order  to  reach  my  dear  home. 
As  I  hurried  through  a  side  street,  I  suddenly 
heard  the  full  tones  of  a  magnificent  piano. 
You  can  imagine  that  I  stopped,  especially  as 
it  occurred  to  me  who  dwelt  in  the  large  grey 
house.  I  pressed  myself  close  to  the  wall,  just 
under  the  open  window  whence  the  sound  pro- 
ceeded. What  I  then  heard  can  neither  be 
described  in  speeches  nor  words.  A  gigantic, 
wondrously  glorious  soul  disclosed  itself, 
amidst  thunder,  storm,  and  lightning,  to  the 
too    happy   listener,    and,    struggling,    striving, 

— 193 : 

18 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


wrestling,  penetrated  continuously  and  vic- 
toriously through  the  terrors  of  nature, 
through  the  wild  uproar  of  the  elements,  to 
the  high,  heavenly,  radiant  sky.  The  sublime 
Master  Gluck  was  playing.  When  he  con- 
cluded, every  thing  around  had  become  tran- 
quil and  clear.  I  saw  his  lofty  form  at  the 
window;  I  recognized  his  noble,  serious  coun- 
tenance. His  thoughtful  eyen  wandered 
searchingly  far,  far  away.  Without  doubt 
magnificent  creative  thoughts  of  future  won- 
drous works  occupied  his  breast.  I  blessed  the 
glorious  one  with  tears  of  bliss  and  thanks,  and 
crept  slowly  home  to  you,  soul  and  mind  filled 
with  rapture!  I  suppose  I  must  now  lie  down 
a  little  while.  The  rain  has  cooled  me  too 
much,  I  fear;  I  shiver,  and  yet  my  hands  are 
burning  as  with  fever!" 

**Yes,  dear  child,  hasten,  change  your 
clothes  at  once,"  said  old  Keller,  alarmed;  ''go 
quickly  to  bed!  Johanna  must  make  you  a 
glass  of  mulled  wine!"  The  young  girl  was 
too  deeply  moved  by  Haydn's  story  to  respond. 
She  arose,  nodded  assentingly  to  her  father, 
and  gave  the  young  man  a  tearful,  fervent 
glance.  Doretta  coolly  said:  ''Good  rest,  im- 
prudent one !"  and  the  young  man  left  the  room. 

On  the  following  day  there  was  great  care 

=:194  


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


and  sorrow  in  the  house  of  the  worthy  citizen 
and  hair-dresser  Keller:  Joseph  Haydn  lay 
senseless  in  a  violent  fever.  The  wise  doctor 
who  was  called  in  (with  his  wig  pushed  back, 
and  his  large  green  spectacles  on  his  nose) 
said  that  it  was  ''only  a  cold."  On  the  third 
day,  however,  he  thoughtfully  shook  his  head, 
and  concluded  that  the  "ninth  day  might 
bring  a  very  bad  crisis."  Quantities  of  medi- 
cine of  every  colour,  plasters  a  yard  long,  and 
thick  pills,  were  poured  into,  laid  on,  and 
administered  to  the  poor  patient.  All  in  vain! 
Joseph  Haydn  lay  raving,  with  hot,  flaming 
cheeks  and  quick  breath,  smiling  blissfully  at 
thoughts  of  heavenly  harmonies  and  of  sing- 
ing angels.  He  must  have  often  heard  en- 
chanting melodies;  for  sometimes  he  enthusias- 
tically exclaimed,  with  fever-parched  lips: 
"Oh,  how  strangely  sweet  are  those  sounds! 
Oh,  how  full  of  joy  is  that  melody!"  Then 
he  would  burst  into  tears  of  rapture. 

The  beautiful  Johanna  would  sit  for  hours 
by  the  bedside  of  the  unconscious  youth, 
weeping  bitterly  and  wringing  her  slender 
hands  in  deadly  anguish.  Doretta  would  creep 
into  the  little  room;  but  she  never  uttered  a 
word  of  sympathy;  she  would  cast  a  pas- 
sionate glance  upon  the  sick  one,  contract  her 

195 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


dark  brow,  and  depart  quickly.  Father  Keller 
tottered  disconsolately  around— powdered  all 
his  wigs  badly,  and  forgot  to  serve  his  best 
customers.  "Do  you  remember  my  predic- 
tion?" he  would  now  and  then  say  to  his 
eldest  daughter,  in  a  hollow  voice;  "do  you 
not  see  that  he  must  die?"  The  much-feared 
ninth  day  arrived,  and  the  patient's  appear- 
ance was  sadly  changed:  the  flushed  colour  of 
the  cheeks  and  lips  vanished,  and  was  followed 
by  a  corpse-like  paleness;  his  respiration  be- 
came low  and.  oppressed;  the  wings  of  the 
angel  of  death  rustled  more  and  more  near. 
The  wise  doctor  said,  with  a  confident  look : 
"If  the  poor  young  man  does  not  conclude  his 
short  life  on  this  very  night,  I  do  not  deserve 
to  be  called  a  disciple  of  the  highly  learned 
yEsculapius ! "  Johanna  heard  these  words, 
and  trembled.  Excited,  half  senseless  with 
despair,  trembling  with  sorrow,  she  hastened  to 
her  chamber  and  threw  herself  upon  her  knees 
before  a  little  image  of  the  Virgin  Mary.  She 
struggled  long  for  words  with  which  to  ad- 
dress the  Merciful  Mother.  At  last  she  ex- 
claimed: "Holy  Queen  of  Heaven,  allow  my 
beloved  to  recover!  If  a  sacrifice  be  needed, 
take  me!  Accept  my  young  life !  Holy  Mary, 
listen!    I  vow  to  consecrate  myself  eternally  to 

196 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


your  service— to  become  a  pious  nun— to  take 
the  veil  as  the  bride  of  your  Son!  Blessed 
Virgin,  grant  my  prayer!  Accept  my  vow! 
Ah,  have  pity  upon  my  grief!  Cure  the  suf- 
ferer!    Rescue,  oh,  rescue  the  dying  one!" 

And  as  she,  in  the  unutterable  woe  of  her 
tortured  heart,  thus  prayed,  she  raised  her 
eyes;  and  it  seemed  to  her  as  if  the  flowers  in 
the  little  shining  pitcher  before  the  Virgin's 
image,  which  but  now  had  drooped  their  faded 
heads,  were  blooming  freshly,  and  greeted  her. 
Sweet  joy  flowed  through  her  childish,  believ- 
ing heart.  She  exultingly  cried:  ''The  Holy 
Virgin  accepts  my  solemn  vow ! ' ' 

''Dearest  father,"  she  said  to  him,  privately, 
in  the  evening,  with  much  excitement,  "if  our 
Haydn  recovers,  then  I  will  fulfil  my  blessed 
mother's  darling  wish,  and  take  the  veil  in  the 
Convent  of  Saint  Ursula.  I  have  vowed  it 
to-day  before  God  and  the  Holy  Virgin ! ' '  Her 
father  sighed  and  smiled  at  the  same  time: 
"Dearest  daughter,  your  compliance  comes  too 
late!  His  life  is  at  an  end;  the  doctor  has 
said  so!" 

Joseph  Haydn  recovered  quickly.  His  child- 
like, happy  smile  returned,  and  by  degrees  his 
vanished  strength.  Who  was  happier  than  the 
beautiful    Johanna?      Did    not    the    secretly- 

=197 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


beloved  one  sit  with  them  whole  days  in  their 
cosy  little  room?  Could  she  not  tend  him  with 
sisterly  care,  move  his  chair  to  the  window  in 
the  warm  sunshine,  or  place  fresh  roses  in  his 
feeble  hands?  Did  not  every  thankful  look 
of  those  dear  eyes,  every  joyous  smile  of  that 
beloved  mouth,  belong  to  her?  And  how 
proudly  she  listened  when  messengers  came 
from  distinguished  ladies  and  gentlemen  and 
inquired  anxiously  about  young  Haydn's 
health !  Why,  old  Porpora,  with  his  wrinkled, 
dark-brown  face  and  his  large,  fiery  eyes,  came 
in  person  in  order  to  visit  his  ^^Birhante,"  as 
he  sometimes,  in  vexation  and  jest,  named  the 
obliging  young  musician.  He  was,  however, 
mild  and  gentle  when  he  saw  the  pale,  weak 
young  man,  who  extended  his  hand  to  him  with 
difficulty.  How  full  of  love  sounded  his  pity- 
ing ^^poveretto!"  and  his  fervent  '^mio  caro 
figlio!''  The  sick  man  felt  it,  and  blushed  with 
happiness. 

When  he  was  alone  with  Johanna  he  would 
speak  of  the  great  and  heartfelt  joy  he  experi- 
enced through  his  intercourse  with  mlisicians; 
of  his  beloved  high  and  holy  art;  of  his 
heavenward  conquering  plans  and  hopes.  Now 
and  then  he  would  endeavour  to  compose;  and 
many  a  charming  sonata,  many  a  fresh,  joyous 

—198 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


quartette,  many  a  lovely  little  song,  bloomed 
in  the  quiet  sick-room  under  the  fair 
Johanna's  blue  eyes.  She,  however,  was  con- 
tending with  her  own  heart.  The  beloved  one 
showed  her,  without  reserve,  the  pure  tender- 
ness of  his  soul;  love  shone  from  his  bright 
eyes,  hovered  upon  his  lips,  and  betrayed  itself 
in  every  word.  How  often  she  wrung  her 
hands  when  alone;  it  seemed  to  her  as  though 
she  must  sink  under  the  double  weight  of  her 
happiness  and  of  her  grievous  oath!  She 
thought  of  the  sombre  cloister-walls,  and  wept 
burning  tears.  She  felt  with  pain  that  Doretta 
had  become  estranged,  and  had  grown  pale  and 
gloomy;  she  noticed  that  she  not  only  avoided 
the  young  lodger  and  her  father,  but  that  she 
often  shut  herself  up  for  days  in  her  own 
chamber. 

One  morning  a  large  letter  arrived  for  the 
"musician  Joseph  Haydn."  It  came  from 
one  of  his  most  distinguished  patrons— from 
the  noble  Count  Morzin.  It  was  a  formal 
nomination  as  musical  director  in  the  excellent 
chapel    of    the    count.*      *'This    situation    is 

*  This  was  but  a  transitory  situation ;  for  in  the  fol- 
lowing year  of  1760  Handel  became  Prince  Esterhazy^s 
chapel-master,  with  an  annual  salary  of  four  hundred 
florins. 

=  199  


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


meant  as  a  mark  of  gratitude"  (so  wrote 
Morzin)  ''for  the  beautiful  symphony  in  D  dur 
which  my  dear  skilful  Haydn  composed  for  my 
chapel  a  short  time  ago.'* 

Haydn  folded  his  hands,  and,  much  moved, 
said,  slowly:  ''0,  how  I  love  Thee,  benign 
God!  How  will  I  thank  Thee,  and  sing  Thy 
praises  all  my  life  long!"  And  then  he  bent 
his  eyes  upon  those  of  his  beloved,  which  were 
swimming  in  tears,  and  cried,  joyfully: 
''Johanna,  dearly  beloved  maiden,  now  I  can 
tell  you  all,  now  we  can  be  happy!"  Doretta 
suddenly  quitted  the  room;  but  Johanna,  fall- 
ing upon  her  knees  before  her  lover,  extended 
her  fair  arms  towards  heaven,  and  exclaimed, 
in  a  heart-rending  voice:  "Joseph,  Joseph, 
banish  your  sweet  dreams!  There  blooms  no 
happiness  in  love  for  us  upon  this  earth!  We 
must  separate— separate  for  this  life!  I  have 
made  a  vow  to  the  Holy  Virgin  Mary:  I  take 
the  veil  at  the  end  of  the  year!"  After  speak- 
ing thus,  she  sprang  up,  and  hastened  from 
the  room.  Father  Keller  threw  his  arms 
around  the  half-fainting  Haydn,  pressed  him 
compassionately  to  his  breast,  and  related  to 
him  with  sobs  the  irrevocable  vow  which  his 
daughter's  tender  heart  had  prompted  her  to 
make. 

=200-  


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


As  Johanna  entered  her  little  sleeping-room 
with  feeble  steps,  in  order  to  gather  new  cour- 
age in  silent  prayer  for  the  fearful  and  difficult 
labour  of  resignation,  she  heard  a  faint  rust- 
ling in  her  friend's  garret.  A  strange  pre- 
sentiment flashed  through  her;  her  strength 
returned;  she  flew  almost  noiselessly  up  the 
stairs,  and  through  the  half-open  door  she  be- 
held her  sister.  She  had  just  thrown  open  the 
window,  and  had  swung  herself  upon  the  nar- 
row parapet,  with  the  intention  of  throwing 
herself  into  the  street.  A  cry  escaped  Johanna's 
lips;  she  reached  the  window  with  the  rapidity 
of  lightning,  and  tore  the  wicked,  blasphemous 
girl  away. 

A  few  months  later  a  beautiful  young  nun, 
who  received  the  name  of  Maria,  entered  the 
Convent  of  Saint  Ursula;  and  two  days  after- 
wards the  musical  director  Joseph  Haydn  cele- 
brated his  quiet  marriage  with  Doretta  Keller. 

Haydn's  leave-taking  from  his  dearly  beloved 
was  both  solemn  and  touching;  the  unhappy 
young  man  vowed  to  the  pious  departing  enthu- 
siast to  give  his  hand  to  Doretta,  not  only  for 
the  sake  of  the  love  he  bore  herself,  but  for  the 
love  her  sister  felt  for  him.  He  hoped  also 
through  this  alliance  to  be  able  to  repay  a  part 
of   his  heavy    indebtedness  to   the   friend   and 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


landlord,  who  had  been  a  father  to  him.  Then 
the  lovers  kissed  each  other  for  the  first  and  last 
time.  ''Be  true  to  your  divine  goddess,  Music," 
the  charming  maiden  sobbed,  with  a  breaking 
heart;  ''do  not  forget  me,  and  have  patience 
with  Doretta!  In  a  year  from  to-day  come  to 
see  me.  Do  not  speak  to  me;  only  look  at  me 
quietly.  If  you  are  happy  with  your  wife, 
carry  a  fresh  bunch  of  flowers  in  your  hand ;  if 
you  are  not  so,  Joseph,  dear,  dear  Joseph,  then 
show  me  the  faded  remains  of  this  now  so  beau- 
tiful white  rose-bud  that  I  give  you  in  parting! 
Farewell,  dearly  beloved  one!  May  God  and 
all  His  saints  be  with  you ! ' ' 

After  the  lapse  of  a  year,  a  slender  young 
man  appeared  before  the  grated  window  of  the 
Ursuline  Convent,  and  asked,  in  a  low  voice,  for 
Sister  Maria.  Then  a  delicate,  weary  form  ap- 
peared, with  a  face  pale  as  marble.  Eyes  red 
with  weeping  gazed  upon  him  through  the 
flowing  nun's  veil.  Haydn  recognized  with 
difficulty,  and  with  bitter  tears,  his  once  so 
blooming  Johanna.  He  quietly  drew  from  his 
breast  a  withered  rose-bud,  and  kissed  it  pas- 
sionately; then  he  pressed  his  brow  against  the 
grating,  and  gazed  long  and  earnestly  upon  his 
beloved  one.  Then,  without  a  sound,  without  a 
word,   with  hearts   full   of   love,   they   greeted 

=202  :=== 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


each  other,  and  never  met  again  upon  this 
earth.  A  week  later  they  buried  the  young 
nun. 

Can  it  be  that  the  eternally  young,  glorious, 
star-like  Haydn,  whose  blissful  melodies  have 
become  to  our  hearts  that  which  the  odorous 
laughing  flowers,  the  green  of  the  woods,  and 
the  rays  of  the  sun  are  to  our  eyes  and  lives — 
can  it  be  that  he  preserved  the  remembrance 
of  this — his  youthful  love  unto  the  end  of  his 
lif e  ?  Can  it  be  that  his  heart,  midst  the  weary 
solitude  of  an  unhappy,  childless  marriage, 
still  dreamed  with  pleasure  of  love  and  of  being 
loved?*  Take  the  charming  "Seasons"  in  your 
hand;  remember  that  Joseph  Haydn  was  sixty- 
nine  years  old  when  this  brilliant,  wondrous 
blossom  sprang  forth  from  his  creative  genius, 
and  refresh  your  doubting  soul  with  the  pure, 
innocent  love  of  Jenny  and  Luke. 

*  Doretta  Haydn,  the  youngest  daughter  of  the  hair- 
dresser Keller,  died  in  the  year  1800.  That  the  eldest, 
who  was  beloved  by  Haydn,  entered  a  convent,  is  also  a 
fact. 


r203. 


Rue  Chabannais,  No.  6 

IN  the  little  narrow  Rue  Chabannais,  one 
of  the  most  unpretending  streets  of  the 
magnificent,  marvellous  city  of  Paris,  there 
is  situated  a  gloomy  house,  marked  No.  6. 
Ugly,  lofty,  old-maidish-looking  buildings  stand 
guarding  it  on  both  sides ;  they  have  even  taken 
their  post  opposite,  and  gaze  obliquely,  with 
their  hollow,  unwashed  windows,  upon  the  grey 
house  with  its  wide  porte-cochere.  The  inhabit- 
ants of  the  little  street  look  upon  it  with  a 
certain  pride,  mingled  with  a  tender  anxiety, 
and  rejoice  like  children  at  the  sight  of  every 
brilliant  equipage  or  plain  fiacre  that  arrests 
its  rapid  course  before  No.  6.  At  all  hours  of 
the  day  graceful  female  figures  glide  over  the 
threshold  of  the  large,  sombre-looking  house, 
and  the  milliner  of  the  Rue  Chabannais  who 
spreads  her  tempting  caps,  ribbons,  and  veils  in 
the  window  of  her  store  might  take  important 
lessons  in  toilette  from  the  many  faces  and 
forms  that  give  no  heed  to  her  outspread  trea- 
sures. Stately,  heavy  silken  dresses, — plain 
black     woolen     garments — ^magnificent     velvet 

=204  == 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


mantillas — small,  light  shawls,  and  careless  cos- 
tumes passed  by.  One  might  have  thought  that 
here  resided  a  famous  gardener,  to  whom  all 
the  flowers  came,  hoping  by  his  advice  to  pro- 
long their  fragile  lives;  for,  from  the  showy 
hot-house  plant  to  the  most  unassuming  wild 
flower  that  begged  for  a  drop  of  dew,  all  seemed 
to  journey  hither. 

Old  and  young  men — but  they  do  not  remind 
one  of  blossoms  and  spring — fly  with  singular 
haste  into  the  mysterious  No.  6.  How  different 
is  the  expression  of  their  faces  as  they  return! 
Now  a  bright  smile  and  sparkling  eyes  are 
seen,  now  a  sad  and  furrowed  brow.  ''Perhaps 
a  second  Lenormand  has  taken  up  her  abode 
in  this  large  house,  revealing  wonderful  secrets 
to  the  curious,  and  uttering  dark  oracular 
speeches!"  Ah,  no;  people  only  steal  to  such 
magicians  under  the  veil  of  twilight  or  the 
shadows  of  night — never  in  broad  daylight. 

Well,  shall  I  disclose  to  you  the  enigma  of 
the  grey  house?  Will  you  follow  me,  and 
ascend  the  broad  stone  staircase?  Yes?  Upon 
these  steps  many  a  fairy  foot  has  tarried,  fear- 
ing to  proceed;  many  a  little  hand  has  tremb- 
lingly rested  on  the  baluster;  these  white  walls 
have  heard  many  an  anxious  sigh.  At  last  we 
have  ascended  the  three  flights.    Let  us  stop  to 

=205 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


take  breath.  Believe  me,  many  a  youthful 
heart  has  beaten  audibly  before  this  closed 
door;  for  we  stand  in  front  of  the  apartments 
of  Manuel  Garcia,  the  greatest  singing-master 
of  our  age. 

One  of  the  charming  fairies  of  whom — I  tell 
you  this  as  a  consolation — there  are  still  many, 
for  they  conceal  themselves  deep  in  the  calyces 
of  flowers,  far  away  from  the  confusion  and 
noise  of  this  wild,  tumultuous  world,  has  ac- 
ceded to  my  prayer,  and  thrown  her  perfumed 
veil  over  me.  We  drape  ourselves  in  its  folds, 
become  invisible,  and  penetrate  boldly  into  the 
artist's  chambers,  to  remain  there  for  an  hour. 
Stepping  across  a  small  antechamber,  we  softly 
open  a  folding-door  to  the  right,  and  enter  a 
simple,  darkened  room,  comfortably  and  taste- 
fully arranged.  Two  beautiful  female  busts 
attract  the  eye;  one  bears  the  inscription: 
Eugenie  Garcia;  the  other  the  immortal  name 
of  Marie  Malibran.  Two  familiar  portraits 
adorn  the  walls — the  pleasant,  friendly  likeness 
of  the  Swedish  Nightingale,  and  the  serious 
countenance  of  Pauline  Viardot. 

Silvery  sounds  from  the  adjoining  cabinet 
strike  the  ear;  they  attract  us  irresistibly.  We 
feel  obliged  to  follow  them;  we  gently  open  the 
side-door,  and  stand  in  the  master's  own  study. 

=206  == 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


The  long,  flowing,  red  silken  curtains  are  half 
drawn  back ;  a  rosy  light  kisses  the  surrounding 
objects.  In  the  centre  of  the  room  stands  a 
handsome  piano;  arm-chairs  are  wheeled  before 
the  mantel-piece,  and  a  large  divan  at  the  side 
is  covered  with  loose  music.  The  marble  table 
is  laden  with  books,  heaps  of  music,  portfolios, 
and  papers  of  all  kinds.  Music-desks  are  placed 
about  the  room;  upon  the  prettiest  of  them, 
by  the  fair  singer's  side,  lies  an  open  book 
of  exercises:  ^'L'ecole  de  Garcia;  L'Art  du 
Chant."  The  breath  of  poetry  seems  wafted 
through  the  room.  Garcia  is  seated  at  the 
piano;  his  pupil  stands  not  far  from  him. 

The  maestro  is  very  tall,  unusually  slender, 
and  feverishly  vivacious.  His  face  is  narrow, 
and  deadly  pale;  black  curly  hair  encircles  his 
high  forehead.  His  eyes  are  dark,  restless, 
glittering,  and  inspired.  Now  he  listens  with 
strained  attention  to  the  rising,  swelling  tones 
as  they  flow  from  the  singer's  lips;  the  next 
moment  he  impatiently  throws  back  his  head. 
A  brief  monition,  a  reprimand,  a  friendly 
smile,  delicate  irony,  or  pleasant,  graceful  jest, 
reaches  her;  sometimes  he  springs  from  the 
piano,  stamps  his  foot,  or  frowns.  How  seldom 
a  word  of  praise !  A  single  word  of  com- 
mendation from  the  mouth  of  such  a  master  is 

=207 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


a  sunbeam  which  opens  at  once  the  firmly- 
closed  bud  of  zeal  and  ardour. 

How  cautious  Garcia  is  with  the  human 
voice,  the  precious  gift  which  is  confided  to 
him !  How  gently  he  holds  it  between  his 
hands,  how  carefully  he  watches  it,  how  anx- 
iously he  endeavours  to  preserve  the  golden, 
shining  enamel  of  youth,  which  is  truly  its 
greatest  charm!  It  is  really  impossible  to  lose 
this  fragile  treasure  under  Garcia 's  guidance, 
no  matter  what  they  have  said  and  do  say  to  the 
contrary.  A  master  whose  method  is  so  true  to 
nature  can  never  be  reproached  with  this.  How 
strictly  he  insists  upon  pauses  for  repose  whilst 
giving  his  lessons!  Only  listen  to  what  he  says 
to  his  pupil,  who  has  just  looked  up  to  him 
inquiringly : 

**La  fraicheur  et  la  spontaneite  sont  les 
qualites  les  plus  precieuses  de  la  voix;  mais 
elles  sont  les  plus  fragiles.  La  voix  qui  les  perd 
ne  les  retrouve  jamais,  le  timbre  en  reste  fele 
sans  retour.  Dans  les  premiers  jours  les  eleves 
ne  devront  pas  se  livrer  a  leurs  exercices  pen- 
dant plus  cinq  minutes  consecutives ;  seulement, 
les  etudes  ainsi  mesurees  pourront  se  renouve- 
ler  chaque  jour  a  quatre  ou  cinq  reprises, 
separees  par  de  grands  intervalles.  Puis,  le 
temps    consacre    au    travail    pourra,    en    s'aug- 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


mentant  par  cinq  minutes  a  la  fois,  etre  porte 
a  une  demi-heure,  limite  qu'on  ne  devra  pas 
depasser.  Au  bout  de  cinq  a  six  mois,  on  pourra 
porter  jusqu'a  quatre  le  nombre  des  demi- 
heures  d'exercice;  mais  on  se  gardera  d'aller 
au-dela;  encore  est-il  bien  entendu  qu'elles 
seront  espacees  par  de  grands  repos.^' 

The  singer  begins  anew.  Her  image  is  re- 
flected in  the  large  mirror  that  hangs  behind 
the  master's  back;  not  a  movement  of  her  face 
can  escape  him;  every  tremulous  motion  of  her 
eyebrows,  every  slight  contraction  of  the  brow, 
every  ungraceful  motion  of  her  mouth,  is  there 
repeated.  Not  a  motion  remains  uncriticised ; 
for  Garcia 's  piercing  eye  rests  always  upon  the 
singer's  features.  He  does  not  confuse  his 
pupil's  ideas  by  incomprehensible  florid  de- 
scriptions of  the  position  of  mouth  and  head; 
he  simply  repeats  the  lesson  of  the  renowned 
Italian  teachers  of  singing,  Tosi  and  Mancini: 
**Que  tout  chanteur  doit  placer  sa  bouche 
comme  il  a  coutume  de  faire  lorsqu'il  sourit 
naturellement,  c'est  a  dire,  de  maniere  que  les 
dents  superieures  soient  separees  perpendicu- 
lairement  et  mediocrement  de  eel  les  d'en  bas." 
He  gives  no  orders  for  the  position  of  the  body 
but  these:  ^*Ayez  le  corps  droit,  tranquille, 
d'aplomb  sur  les  deux  jamhes,  eloigne  de  tout 

rrr:209 
14 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


point  d'appui."  The  arms  must  be  held 
slightly  backwards,  '^afin  de  ne  pas  gener  le 
jeV'  de  la  poitrine."  The  lesson  is  ended.  The 
maestro  conducts  his  pupil  to  the  door;  with 
friendly  cordiality  he  repeats  briefly  the  con- 
tents of  the  day's  lesson,  advises  her  about  her 
studies  at  home,  and  with  winning  words  en- 
courages the  desponding  fair  one. 

See!  The  scarcely  closed  door  reopens:  a 
pale  young  man  enters,  accompanied  by  two 
older  ones.  He  bows  awkwardly,  although  en- 
deavouring to  seem  composed,  and  delivers, 
with  a  self-sufficient  smile,  several  letters  of 
introduction,  among  which  are  found  the  names 
of  Meyerbeer,  Auber,  and  Spontini.  He  is  a 
singer  from  the  provinces.  Intoxicated  with 
the  praises  of  his  boon-companions,  he  wishes 
to  devote  himself  to  the  stage.  His  rich  papa 
and  still  wealthier  uncle  accompany  him  to 
Paris.  Cousin  Meyerbeer  sends  him  to  Garcia, 
after  having  previously  sent  him  from  Pontius- 
Auber  to  Pilate-Spontini.  How  carelessly  Gar- 
cia casts  these  important  letters  to  one  side! 
He  seats  himself; — how  earnestly  he  listens! 
The  young  artist  has  brought  his  favourite  air 
with  him,  his  show-piece.  Among  all  com- 
posers, Verdi  is  his  idol.  The  recitative  com- 
mences;   Garcia     accompanies.      The    voice    is 

-210  


=  MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


weak,  and  at  the  same  time  sharp — already  half 
broken;  his  intonation  is  unnatural  and  forced; 
and  to  this  are  added  false  respiration  and  in- 
distinct utterance.  The  master  becomes  more 
and  more  impatient;  he  agitates  his  feet,  he 
hastens  the  time,  his  slender  hands  fly  over  the 
keys  with  feverish  haste,  his  eyes  sparkle,  he 
presses  his  lip  between  his  teeth.  Suddenly  he 
springs  up,  with  the  half -stifled  exclamation : 
'*Assez,  monsieur,  assez;  je  vous  prie!''  He 
sinks  exhausted  upon  a  chair.  A  painful  pause 
ensues.  At  last  the  master  unfolds  to  the 
singer,  quietly  and  decidedly,  the  reasons  which 
induce  him  to  reject  his  demand,  notwithstand- 
ing Meyerbeer's  and  Spontini's  recommenda- 
tions. His  calmness  and  frankness  towards  the 
much-offended  young  man  are  remarkable.  In 
conclusion,  he  astonishes  him  by  advising  him 
to  address  himself  to  some  other  teacher,  if  he 
does  not  feel  convinced  of  what  he  tells  him, 
and  dismisses  the  disappointed  admirer  of 
Verdi  with  the  most  exquisite  politeness. 

How  many  pupils  he  rejects,  who  force  them- 
selves upon  him,  begging  to  have  a  few  flowers 
thrown  by  his  hand  upon  their  worn-out  voices ! 
How  impatient  he  is  with  narrowness  of 
musical  conception,  with  want  of  talent,  with 
idleness!     His  severity  with  these  defects  has 

1^211  == 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


given  him  a  bad  reputation;  his  violence  has 
drawn  bitter  tears  from  many  an  eye;  but  his 
justice  has  never  been  doubted.  He  would  not 
for  a  moment  feign  an  interest  in  a  pupil;  on 
the  contrary,  where  he  finds  the  above  defects 
he  lets  the  scholar  feel  that  he  does  not  care  for 
him.  With  one  hand  he  carelessly  plays  now 
and  then  an  accompanying  accord,  in  the  other 
he  holds  a  book;  he  reads  busily  on  without 
looking  up,  and  the  monotonous  " encore' '  at 
the  close  of  a  solfeggia  alone  shows  that  the 
master's  ear  still  watches. 

The  more  unfinished  and  uncultivated  the 
voice  that  is  brought  him,  the  more  gratefully 
does  he  receive  it.  How  joyously  he  then 
undertakes  his  arduous  task,  how  indefatigable 
he  proves  himself,  how  carefully  and  conscien- 
tiously he  watches  over  the  treasure  which  has 
been  confided  to  him!  He  occupies  himself 
very  unwillingly  with  what  are  called  '^  re- 
pairs" and  *' finishing  touches,"  and  confesses 
as  much  very  unreservedly. 

Ah!  I  wish  some  of  the  German  teachers  of 
singing — who  are  accustomed  to  take  their 
oath  upon  the  infallibility  of  each  one  of  their 
scholars — would  themselves  go  to  school  for  a 
while  to  this  passionate  and  careful  Spaniard, 
who  is  so  enthusiastic    for    art!     There    they 

=^212  


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


would  be  obliged  to  study,  quietly  and  free 
from  prejudice,  Garcia 's  ''L'Art  du  Chant." 
Surely  many  of  these  fugitive  birds  could  not 
be  recognized  on  their  return.  Freely  and 
merrily  would  they  chirp  and  laugh,  whilst 
relating  the  loss  of  their  old,  time-honoured, 
ridiculous,  pedantic  notions  in  the  little  Rue 
Chabannais,  No.  6,  in  the  splendid  city  of 
Paris !    Would  not  that  be  glorious  ? 

Let  us  away!  My  fair  protectress  has  softly 
pulled  the  enchanted  veil  that  envelopes  us. 
Let  us  obey  her  command,  and  feel  no  anger 
with  the  lovely  one,  although  we  leave  regret- 
fully the  pleasant  apartment.  Dear  Master 
Garcia,  farewell!  We  rejoice  with  our  whole 
hearts  that  we  have  watched  you ;  believe  us,  we 
will  often  return  to  you  without  the  fairy  veil. 
We  mean  that  in  imagination  we  will  do  so, 
admiringly  and  gratefully.  The  golden  and 
silver  sounds  which  your  power  has  enticed 
from  fresh  young  lips  will  then  flow  over  us, 
and  rock  us  to  sleep ;  the  clear  drops  of  pearly 
roulades  will  reach  us  sportively  and  refresh- 
ingly; pleasant  thoughts  will  steal  over  us,  and 
the  poor  troubled  heart  will  no  longer  hear  the 
discord  of  the  every-day  world ! 


r218= 


A  Melody 


**When  I  hear  the  lay 
That  once  my  love  did  sing. ' ' 

Heine. 

A  GAY  troop  of  actors  came  in  the  autumn 
of  the  year  1792  to  the  former  capital  of 
Normandy — old,  serious  Rouen — which,  with 
its  imposing  cathedrals,  its  proud  churches, 
and  its  dark  and  narrow  streets,  seemed  as 
though  it  would  suffer  no  mundane  pleasure 
within  its  walls.  The  director  engaged  the  large, 
dreary-looking  theatre,  and  gave  five  operatic 
representations  a  week.  The  orchestra  was  pas- 
sable, the  troop  was  tolerable;  and  so  the  good 
inhabitants  of  Rouen  had  the  pleasure  of  admir- 
ing the  creations  of  their  celebrated  country- 
men Mehul,  Lully,  and  Dalayrac,  as  well  as 
those  of  the  great  Belgian  G  retry.  How  many 
tears  flowed  from  beautiful  eyes  at  .faithful 
Blondel's  song: 

*'0  Eichard,  6  mon  roi, 
L  'univers  t  'abandonne. ' ' 

How    they    sighed    at    the    touching   songs    in 
*^ Joseph/'  how    enchanted    they    were    at    the 

-214  


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


singular  painting  of  the  tempest — so  true  to 
nature — in  Lully's  ''Isis!''  And  Dalayrac's 
''Gulistan'^  soon  became  decidedly  the  fa- 
vourite opera  of  the  grateful  public. 

On  a  rainy,  shivering  October  evening,  a 
young  man,  about  eighteen  years  old,  stood,  in 
the  attitude  of  an  eager  listener,  upon  the  little, 
narrow  staircase  which  was  used  by  the  actors 
as  an  entrance.  At  its  end  was  a  door,  opening 
into  a  room  behind  the  stage.  He  was  lightly, 
almost  poorly,  clad,  but  his  figure  was  slight 
and  aristocratic,  and  his  bearing  elegant.  The 
wretched  lantern  which  was  fastened  near  the 
door  threw  its  uncertain  light  upon  his  fresh 
young  cheek  and  merry,  shining  eyes.  His 
brown  hair  was  brushed  away  from  his  clear 
and  open  brow,  about  which  lay  more  than 
youth  and  merriment:  the  indescribable  light 
of  genius  encircled  it.  They  were  performing 
Dalayrac's  ^^Deux  Petits  Savoyards,"  and 
every  note,  though  subdued  by  distance,  was 
still  audible  to  the  solitary  listener. 

''Now  the  duet  of  the  two  Savoyards  must  be 
introduced,"  he  murmured  to  himself,  "yes,  I 
am  right;  there  is  the  introduction;  two  bars 
more,  and  the  voices  commence!  Ah,  if  I  had 
money,  much  money,  so  as  to  be  able  to  enjoy 
such  music  every  evening!" 

=215 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


A  gentle  sigh  escaped  from  his  handsome 
lips;  but  still  he  listened,  for  the  sound  of  soft, 
pleasing  voices  was  wafted  towards  him.  Sud- 
denly he  heard  a  fall,  a  scream;  and  imme- 
diately the  door  was  thrown  open  so  violently 
that  the  young  man  staggered. 

''What  do  you  here?"  asked  a  harsh  voice; 
''you  had  better  seek  for  a  porter  who  can 
carry  little  Marion  home.  She  has  fallen  down 
a  trap-door,  and  has  injured  her  foot.  The 
opera  must  proceed,  even  without  the  second 
Savoyard;  we  have  no  time  to  trouble  ourselves 
about  the  girl." 

"I  will  carry  her  myself,"  said  the  young 
man. 

"Then  come  in  quickly!"  was  the  surly 
reply. 

The  youth  complied,  and  found  himself  in  a 
large,  gloomy,  faintly-lighted  room,  behind  the 
stage,  where  he  beheld  a  young  girl  in  the  cos- 
tume of  a  Savoyard,  sitting  upon  a  wretched, 
broken  chair.  Before  her  knelt  an  old,  de- 
formed woman,  who  was  occupied  in  bandaging 
a  foot  of  remarkable  whiteness  and  delicacy. 

"Mademoiselle  Marion,  be  composed.  Here 
is  some  one  who  will  carry  you  home;  old 
Louison  will  accompany  you  and  show  him  the 
way,"  said  the  man. 

=216 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


The  young  man  approached  the  chair  with 
an  almost  chivalrous  gallantry,  and  bowed  as 
though  before  a  princess.  When  he  looked  up, 
a  face  bordered  by  short,  dark  locks  had  turned 
itself  towards  him — a  face  of  such  enchanting 
although  childlike  beauty,  with  eyes  of  so  pure 
a  blue  and  with  so  charming  an  expression  of 
countenance,  that  he  involuntarily  greeted 
these  charms  with  an  enthusiastic  smile.  His 
smile  was  returned  by  the  loveliest  of  lips. 

**She  has  not  hurt  herself,"  said  the  old 
woman;  "she  has  merely  sprained  her  foot. 
To-morrow  all  will  be  well ;  but  now  we  must  go 
quickly  home." 

She  wrapped  a  black  cloak  around  Marion's 
pretty  figure;  Adrian — this  was  the  young 
man's  name — took  the  young  girl  in  his  arms, 
as  lightly  and  carefully  as  a  father  would  have 
taken  his  child;  the  old  woman,  carrying  a  lan- 
tern, tripped  before  them,  and  thus  the  little 
procession  moved  through  several  of  the  streets 
of  Kouen. 

The  rain  had  ceased ;  but  it  was  cold.  Marion 
did  not  speak ;  she  clung  confidingly  to  her  pro- 
tector; her  gentle  breath  touched  Adrian's 
cheeks,  and  her  locks  rested  upon  his  forehead. 
He  walked  as  though  in  a  di*eam,  but  so  slowly 
that  the  old  woman  often  inquired:     **I  sup- 

-217  


MUSICAL  SKETCHES: 


pose  she  is  becoming  too  heavy  for  you?"  "Oh, 
no!"  he  would  quickly  and  passionately 
answer. 

The  old  woman  soon  stopped  before  a  lit- 
tle, narrow  house,  and  said:  '^Marion's  aunt 
lives  here."  Adrian  started.  He  was  allowed 
to  carry  her  up-stairs.  An  elderly,  good-hu- 
moured-looking woman  rushed,  full  of  grief  and 
surprise,  into  the  room,  took  the  young  girl 
from  Adrian's  arms,  and  kissed  her. 

*'May  I  be  permitted  to  inquire  to-morrow 
how  Mademoiselle  finds  herself?"  asked  the 
young  man. 

**  Certainly,"  said  Marion,  laughing  ro- 
guishly. '*I  thank  you  with  all  my  heart  for 
your  services,  and  beg  that  you  will  tell  me 
your  name ! ' ' 

**  Adrian  Boieldieu,  the  eldest  son  of  the  sec- 
retary of  his  Eminence  the  Cardinal  de  la 
Kochefoucauld. " 

* '  Boieldieu  !    Singular  name ! ' ' 

* '  You  will  forget  it,  therefore,  less  speedily ! ' ' 

"It  may  be  so!" 

"Good  night!" 

"Good  night!" 

This  original  scene  was  followed  by  an  idyl 
of  the  most  touching  nature.  The  two  lively, 
merry,    handsome     children     met     again — and 

-218  == 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


often — and  loved  each  other.  Their  affection 
became  so  deep  and  fervent  that  they  soon 
could  not  endure  the  idea  of  a  separation. 
Marion  was  an  orphan,  not  quite  sixteen  years 
old,  whose  only  riches  consisted  in  her  graceful 
and  pleasing  manner  and  a  wondrously  lovely 
voice.  She  knew  not  how  she  had  fallen  into 
the  hands  of  the  director.  She  had  but  one 
remembrance  of  her  childhood — a  little,  plain- 
tive song,  an  old  Scottish  melody,  that  a  beau- 
tiful, pale,  blonde  woman,  whom  she  called 
** mother,"  had  sung  to  her.  Adrian  was  de- 
lighted with  the  air,  it  possessed  an  indescrib- 
able charm  for  him,  and  every  time  they  met 
he  begged  for  the  dear : 


h^-^n^ 


La  ia  la  la       la 

for  she  knew  no  words  for  it.  Sometimes  he 
would  hum  softly  as  she  sang  it;  at  other  times 
he  would  close  his  eyes,  rest  his  handsome  face 
upon  his  hand,  and  look  as  though  he  were 
dreaming,  Marion  and  Adrian  only  met  at  the 
rehearsals — under  painted  trees  and  oil-fed 
moons,  upon  wooden  banks  of  grass,  amidst 
ropes,  lanterns,  torn  side-scenes,  and  old  lum- 
ber; but  their  innocent  love  gave  a  lustre  to  all 
=219 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


their  wretched,  confused  surroundings.  They 
needed  no  nightingale's  song,  no  murmuring 
brook,  to  idealize  their  affection;  in  their  own 
youthful  hearts  flowed  the  source  of  true 
poetry.  Their  happy  love,  free  from  care,  sang 
only  lark-like  songs,  and  understood  naught  of 
melancholy  and  soft  complaint. 

At  Marion's  request,  they  allowed  the  young 
man  admission  to  the  rehearsals;  ''he  knows  so 
much  about  music,"  she  said  to  the  director, 
whose  favourite  she  was,  "and  takes  lessons 
every  evening  with  the  organist  Broche.  He 
can  sing  all  my  parts  to  me,  and  notices  at  once 
when  the  insufferable  Monsieur  Careaux  takes 
a  false  note  upon  his  violin,  or  when  old  Martin 
comes  in  too  soon  with  his  bassoon.  He  will 
become  a  great  musician ! ' ' 

In  consequence  of  this  eulogy,  the  director — 
who  was  at  the  same  time  the  leader  of  his 
troop — sometimes  allowed  young  Boieldieu  to 
lead  the  orchestra  at  the  rehearsals.  Upon  these 
occasions  all  went  off  with  such  extraordinary 
fire  that  the  old  musicians  laughed  with  delight, 
and  were  astonished  at  their  own  performances. 
Adrian  was  only  too  happy  with  his  own 
efforts.  "Do  you  see,"  he  said  to  Marion,  who, 
proud,  and  beaming  with  joy,  sang  her  part 
under  his  direction,  "now  I  commence  to  move 

=220  == 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


my  wings  for  a  higher  flight.  I  am  improving; 
I  must  become  a  great  composer — not  a  mere 
musician!  I  shall  write  operas,  and  you  will 
sing  them;  thus  our  names,  united,  will  become 
famous ! ' ' 

*'Then  we  will  be  rich,  have  handsome 
clothes,  drive,  and  reside  in  a  magnificent 
house!"  Marion  would  say. 

''And  we  will  live  in  Paris,  and  Mehul  and 
the  glorious  Gretry  will  visit  us.  They  will 
press  my  hand,  and  speak  in  a  friendly  man- 
ner to  me ! " 

''They  will  admire  your  pretty  little  wife, 
also,  and  will  tell  the  whole  world  how  dearly 
we  love  one  another,  how  happy  Adrian  and 
Marion  are  together." 

And  Adrian,  smiling,  kissed  the  pretty  hands 
of  the  charming  prophetess. 

The  lovely  dream  vanished  all  too  soon;  the 
joyous  idyl  had  a  sorrowful  ending.  The 
surly  old  organist  Broche — the  music-teacher 
of  young  Boieldieu — accidentally  became  ac- 
quainted with  his  pupil's  other  occupations  and 
studies.  In  a  rage  he  rushed  to  Adrian's 
father,  and  disclosed  to  him  his  son's  "fine 
tricks."  "I  always  declared  that  there  could 
be  nothing  made  of  him,— now  behold  the 
realization    of    my    words!      The    youth    is    a 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES-. 


vain  and  good-for-nothing  fellow,  devoid  of 
talent!'' 

Adrian  was  led  away  whilst  directing  the 
orchestra.  He  was  closely  watched,  and  when 
at  the  end  of  a  week  his  freedom  was  restored 
to  him,  he  found  that  the  troop  had  not  only 
departed  **by  superior  orders,"  but  that  they 
had  disappeared  without  leaving  any  clue  to 
their  whereabouts.  Boieldieu  felt  deeply  the 
loss  of  his  dear  Marion ;  but  his  sorrow  did  not 
make  him  fall  ill;  his  nature  was  too  vigorous. 
He  conquered  his  grief.  He  threw  himself  into 
the  arms  of  his  beloved  Music  with  a  sort  of  joy- 
ous despair;  he  played,  composed,  and  studied 
with  extraordinary  fervour.  He*  would  often 
read  until  late  at  night  excellent  theoretical 
works  upon  composition ;  he  ardently  longed  to 
compose  an  opera  and  to  carry  it  to  Paris. 
Paris  was  the  goal  of  all  his  longings,  all  his 
wishes!  An  old  poet  living  in  Rouen — after 
many  entreaties — presented  the  young  man 
with  a  very  indifferent,  hastily  composed  opera- 
text,  which  Adrian,  however,  found  excellent, 
and  immediately  set  to  music. 

Two  years  passed  amidst  these  hopes,  labours, 
and  studies,  and  then  one  September  morning 
Adrian  Boieldieu  wandered  forth,  with  the 
score  of    his  work  under    his  arm,  and    thirty 

-222  ==^ 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


francs  in  his  pocket,  towards  the  object  of  all 
his  thoughts.     He  was  going  to  Paris. 

When  he  arrived  in  the  gigantic  enchanted 
city,  the  billows  of  its  rapidly  moving  life 
closed  over  the  head  of  the  young  inexperienced 
man  and  almost  deprived  him  of  his  senses. 
Fortunately,  a  compassionate  wave  bore  him  to 
the  house  of  the  famous  old  instrument-maker 
Erard.  Here,  in  the  parlour  of  this  hospitable 
house,  where  music  was  so  much  loved,  Adrian 
could  play  upon  the  magnificent  piano,  and, 
what  made  him  still  happier,  could  listen  to 
music,  for  Erard  received  all  the  artists  of 
note. 

Boieldieu's  playing  soon  attracted  the  atten- 
tion of  his  listeners,  less  through  its  bravura 
than  through  its  elegance;  among  his  auditors 
were  connoisseurs  like  Rode  and  Garat. 

In  spite  of  this,  the  young  man  felt  but  too 
painfully  his  ignorance;  he  therefore  returned 
to  his  favourite  occupation,  composition,  and 
supported  himself  by  tuning  pianos.  His  bread 
was  hardly  earned,  and  he  often  ate  it  with 
tears;  but  his  unconquerable  cheerfulness,  the 
distinguishing  trait  of  his  whole  character,  and 
the  extraordinary  elasticity  of  his  nature, 
always  brought  him  hope. 

One    dark,    raw    February   afternoon — Boiel- 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES- 


dieu  had  already  been  nearly  six  months  in 
Paris — he  reached  his  garret  fatigued,  almost 
frozen.  He  found  there  a  note  from  Erard, 
directing  him  to  go  immediately  to  the  Rue 
Richelieu,  in  house  No.  30,  on  the  second  floor. 
They  desired  a  skilful  tuner.  The  young  man 
at  once  set  forth.  He  found  the  house,  and  was 
conducted  into  a  small  but  richly  and  tastefully 
decorated  parlour;  in  its  centre  stood  a  hand- 
some piano.  The  fire  flickered  merrily  in  the 
chimney,  the  curtains  were  closed,  a  lighted  lamp 
was  suspended  from  the  ceiling,  and  tapestry, 
representing  a  field  covered  with  flowers  of 
every  description,  hung  upon  the  walls.  Adrian 
felt  an  indescribable  sense  of  comfort ;  the  gentle 
warmth  penetrated  through  his  whole  system, 
it  seemed  to  him  that  he  must  repose  and  dream. 
He  entirely  forgot  wherefore  he  had  come 
thither.  He  seated  himself  at  the  piano,  and 
played  at  first  brilliantly  and  grandly,  then 
more  gently,  and  at  last  he  came — he  knew  not 
himself  how — to  the  short,  ardent  dream  of  his 
first  rosy  love:  the  old  Scottish  song  flowed 
softly  and  slowly  over  the  keys.  Then  a  portiere 
of  violet  velvet  was  lifted:  a  young  woman,  at- 
tired in  a  pink  silk  dress,  appeared  upon  the 
threshold,  and  an  exceedingly  beautiful  voice 
repeated,   half  trembling,   half    doubting,   half 

224 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


Marion  threw  herself  into  the  dreamer's  arms. 
Yes,  this  bewitching,  beautiful  creature,  with 
rounded  figure  and  sparkling  eyes,  was  the  little 
girl  of  the  troop  at  Eouen. 

''Ah,  do  not  be  angry,  Adrian,"  she  said, 
after  a  pause,  with  exquisite  naivete,  "I  am 
married,  and  am  now  called  Madame  St.  Aubin. 
They  all  declared  that  I  could  not  wait  for  you, 
that  I  should  not,  for  I  would  become  old  and 
ugly  whilst  doing  so.  I  wept  bitterly;  but  it 
was  of  no  avail.  I  am  engaged  as  singer  at  the 
Opera  Comique.  I  please  the  Parisians,  and 
they  please  me.  St.  Aubin  is  kind ;  he  travels 
frequently;  often  I  do  not  see  him  for  a  week 
at  a  time." 

Adrian  gazed  upon  the  young  woman's  face, 
smiled  sorrowfully,  and  was  silent.  ''Believe 
me,"  she  continued,  with  pleasing  flattery,  "I 
have  thought  much,  ah,  very  much,  on  you,  and 
I  know  full  well  that  it  would  be  a  thousand 
times  better  if  I  belonged  to  you.  Do  you  still 
remember  how  often  we  dreamed  of  that  hap- 
piness ? ' ' 

And  Adrian  seemed  to  recollect  it;  for  he 
drew  his  beloved  passionately  towards  him,  and 
hid  his  face,  which  had  grown  pale,  upon  her 
breast. 


15 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


About  four  months  later,  an  operetta  was 
brought  out  at  the  Opera  Comique  by  a  certain 
Adrian  Boieldieu,  '^La  Dot  de  Suzette."  The 
much  praised,  extremely  beloved  Madame  St. 
Aubin  took  the  principal  part.  The  opera  had 
an  extraordinary  success;  the  blase  Parisians 
were  electrified  by  its  fresh,  lovely  music  and 
by  its  originality.  The  St.  Aubin,  how  she 
acted,  how  she  sang!  Her  name,  united  with 
that  of  the  composer,  hovered  upon  every  lip; 
they  were  both  called  before  the  curtain  with 
shouts  of  applause. 

After  the  opera  there  was  a  little  supper  at 
Marion's.  ^'Do  you  see,"  said  she,  with  unre- 
strained joyousness,  as  Adrian  entered,  with  a 
radiant  face,  ''one  of  your  former  wishes  has 
been  fulfilled:  I  have  sung  your  melodies,  and 
our  united  names  have  been  rapturously  praised. 
I  doubt,  however,  my  poor  friend,  if  Gretry 
and  Mehul  will  visit  us  in  consequence  of  this ; 
but  here  is  one  who  is  delighted  with  you,  and 
who  begs  to  be  permitted  to  press  your  hand. 
He  is  called  Monsieur  Cherubini." 

A  slight  handsome  man,  thirty-two  years  old, 
advanced  towards  him,  and  clasped  him  with 
the  most  amiable  cordiality  in  his  arms. 

Many  years  rolled  by;  the  name  of  Boieldieu 
was  already  classed   among  the  most  brilliant 


BOILDIEU 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


stars  in  the  musical  heaven  of  France.  The 
graceful,  witty  ^^Le  Calif e  de  Bagdad,"  *'Le 
Barhier  de  Village,"  ^'Le  Petit  Chaperon 
Rouge,"  and  many  other  works,  established  his 
immortal  fame.  The  genial  composer  was  ap- 
pointed Professor  of  the  Piano  at  the  Con- 
servatoire of  Paris;  he  afterwards  accepted  the 
honourable  post  of  Imperial  Chapel-Master  at 
St.  Petersburg.  He  returned  to  Paris,  how- 
ever, in  1811;  for  his  health  could  not  endure 
the  severity  of  the  Northern  climate.  To  the 
delight  of  his  friends,  he  brought  many  new 
compositions  with  him — splendid  military  mu- 
sic, and  the  choruses  to  Racine's  '^Athalie." 
In  the  joy  of  finding  himself  once  more  at 
home,  he  shortly  after  his  return  commenced 
and  finished  the  delicious,  merry  **Jean  de 
Paris." 

But  the  sky  clouded  above  him.  Young  Ros- 
sini's name  was  mentioned  ever  more  loudly 
and  enthusiastically  in  France,  and  his  operas 
were  received  with  rejoicing.  Boieldieu  found 
himself  neglected;  even  ''Jean  de  Paris"  did 
not  have  its  expected  success.  His  mind  be- 
came spiritless,  his  body  was  ill;  his  exertions 
in  composing  new  works  had  but  poor  results. 
Adrian  Boieldieu  needed  sunshine — ardent, 
glowing    sunshine;    without    this    his    creative 

=227  = 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


powers  perished.  Whence  should  the  sun  shine 
upon  him?  Marion  had  disappeared  before  his 
departure  for  St.  Petersburg;  they  said,  laugh- 
ingly, that  her  own  husband  had  eloped  with 
her,  and  Adrian's  friends  could  do  nothing  for 
him.  Thus  he  lived  for  four  years  without  any 
permanent  situation ;  his  body  and  mind  became 
more  fatigued;  a  deep  melancholy  took  posses- 
sion of  the  formerly  so  joyous  man.  The 
physicians  ordered  him  to  visit  Italy.  The 
loving  care  of  his  friends  enabled  him  to  make 
the  journey,  for  his  own  scanty  means  were 
insufficient.  Discontented,  he  soon  longed  to 
return  to  Paris  and  to  his  beloved  friend 
Cherubini.  He  gathered  his  remaining  strength 
together,  and  turned  towards  home.  In  Brus- 
sels his  exhausted  body  gave  way,  and  he  fell 
very  ill.  They  carried  him  from  the  noisy 
hotel  into  a  quiet  dwelling.  The  artists  of  the 
town  interested  themselves  in  the  liveliest  man- 
ner for  the  sufferer;  their  inquiries  and  lamen- 
tations were  without  end.  Every  one  wished 
to  take  some  part  in  assisting  him  and  in  min- 
istering to  his  ease  and  comfort.  The  sick  man 
knew  nothing  of  this;  he  lay,  filled  with 
feverish  fantasies,  and  dreamed  of  laurel 
wreaths  and  eternal  fame. 


.228:: 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


It  was  the  ninth  night  of  his  illness,  and  his 
nurse  had  just  sunk  into  a  deep  sleep,  the 
night-lamp  burned  dim,  and  flickered — the  sick 
man  suddenly  raised  himself  and  looked 
around.  It  seemed  to  him  as  though  he  heard 
a  well-known  air;  he  listened.  No,  it  was  no 
illusion ;  some  one  was  singing  in  a  weary, 
broken,  but  still  lovely,  dear,  and  familiar 
voice — yes,  in  the  next  chamber.  And  the  song? 
It  was  the  sweet  old  Scottish  melody  of  the 
little,  charming  Marion.  How  distinctly  he 
saw  this  Marion!  She  moved  before  him  in  all 
her  beauty,  in  the  entire  splendour  of  her 
youth,  love,  and  grace!  She  smiled,  she  beck- 
oned to  him,  and  sang.  Then — how  could  he 
do  otherwise  than  softly  join  in  the  refrain: 
*'La  a — la  a — la  la!"  He  heard  a  faint  cry,  a 
cry  full  of  rejoicing  and  suffering;  then  all 
was  still — frightfully  still.  When  the  nurse 
awoke,  he  found  his  patient  in  a  deep  swoon. 

He  lay  thus  for  many  hours;  the  physicians 
arrived,  and,  whilst  giving  him  their  care, 
spoke  of  the  death,  in  the  next  room,  of  the 
formerly  famous  singer  of  the  Opera  Comique, 
Madame  St.  Aubin.  She  had  died  the  previous 
night. 

''It  is  a  blessing  for  the  poor  creature,'*  said 


r229r 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


the  physician;  "for  when  she  lost  her  voice  her 
husband  forsook  her.  She  was  supported  and 
sometimes  employed  by  the  director  of  the 
theatre  from  compassion,  and  led  a  miserable 
life.  She  lived  only  in  her  recollections." 
Thus  sounded  the  funeral  oration  of  one  of  the 
most  highly  praised  and  charming  singers  of 
her  time. 

Eight  days  later,  Adrian  Boieldieu  was  out 
of  danger.  During  the  first  days  of  his  con- 
valescence he  received  a  letter  from  Paris, 
containing  the  news  of  Mehul's  death,  together 
with  the  offer  of  his  honourable  and  lucrative 
post  in  the  Conservatoire  of  Paris.  Here  was 
at  last  the  longed-for  sunshine.  Beneath  its 
enlivening  influence,  Boieldieu 's  body  and 
mind  gained  strength  and  his  old  energy  re- 
turned. 

He  journeyed  back  to  Paris,  was  received 
with  rejoicing  by  his  friends,  headed  by  the 
noble  Cherubini,  and  was  solemnly  inaugu- 
rated in  his  new  situation.  Was  Adrian  Boiel- 
dieu aware  of  Marion's  death?  No  one  knew; 
he  never  mentioned  her  name.  He  built  a 
monument  for  his  beloved — a  precious*  memo- 
rial, based  upon  the  simple  little  song  that 
Marion  sang  so  prettily;  this  immortal  monu- 
ment is  called:     '^La  Dame  Blanche.'^ 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


The  enthusiasm  that  this  master-work  ex- 
cited not  only  in  France,  but  in  the  entire 
musical  world,  is  well  known.  This  opera  has 
ranked  Boieldieu  among  the  greatest  com- 
posers. This  lovely  creation  was  Boieldieu 's 
favourite,  and  was  his  last  work  of  importance. 
Immediately  before  his  death,  on  the  9th  of 
October,  1834,  he  seemed  to  be  occupied  by  it; 
for  the  faithful  friends  who  surrounded  his 
dying  couch  heard  him  sing  softly,  with  smil- 
ing lips,  the  old  Scottish  melody,  the  melody  so 
dear  to  his  heart — and  there  came,  like  a  won- 
drously  sweet,  far  distant  echo,  the  lovely 
refrain : 


La      la        la  la         la        la.        la        la 


:231: 


Domenico   Cimarosa 

THE  famous  opera-house  of  Vienna  had 
not  been  so  crowded  for  years  as  it  was 
on  the  evening  of  the  29th  of  November  in  the 
year  1791.  All  who  had  claims  to  rank,  wealth, 
and  beauty  adorned  the  boxes  and  orchestra- 
seats.  Many  of  the  poorer  class — difficult 
though  it  may  have  been  for  them — had  also 
laid  their  mite  upon  the  altar  of  Art;  for 
the  parquet  and  upper  galleries  were  filled  to 
overflowing.  To  the  observer  the  large  house 
offered  an  attractive  although  melancholy  pic- 
ture. There  shone  lovely,  blooming  faces,  upon 
whose  brow  the  goddess  of  fortune  had  laid  her 
wand ;  here  gazed  pale,  weary  ones,  upon  whose 
features  the  hand  of  care  had  drawn  innumer- 
able furrows;  gauze,  silk,  velvet,  threadbare 
garments,  perfumed  elegance,  homely  blouses, 
bashful  poverty — all  were  about  him.  It  was 
whispered  that  the  Emperor  Leopold,  with  his 
brilliant  suite,  had  promised  to  appear;  expect- 
ant glances  were  directed  alternately  from  the 
curtain  before  the  stage  to  the  imperial  box, 
with  its  flowing  velvet  hangings.     What,  then, 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


had  drawn  so  irresistibly  both  rich  and  poor 
within  these  walls?  What  work  of  art,  or 
whose  appearance,  created  the  unusual  excite- 
ment? 

A  new  opera  was  to  be  brought  out — one 
written  by  a  foreign  composer,  named  Cima- 
rosa,  whom  the  emperor  had  sent  for  to  Italy 
and  had  nominated  to  the  post  of  Chapel-Mas- 
ter. The  new  work  which  was  about  to  be 
represented  was  called  ''The  Secret  Mar- 
riage,'^  *'Il  Matrimonio  Segreto/'  At  court 
they  called  the  composer  the  greatest  of  all 
living  masters — greater  than  the  Viennese 
Mozart;  but  this  the  people  could  not  and 
would  not  believe.  No  true  child  of  Vienna 
could  forsake  Wolfgang  Amadeus;  every  one 
must  hear  and  judge  for  himself  whether  a 
foreign  adventurer  was  capable  of  lessening 
the  fame  of  the  universal  favourite.  The 
people  knew  and  honoured  their  musical 
heroes;  they  wore  the  name  of  the  great  Gluck 
like  an  order  set  in  brilliants  upon  their  breast ; 
they  carried  the  name  of  Haydn  like  a  magnifi- 
cent bunch  of  flowers  in  their  hand;  but  that 
of  their  beloved,  merry  Mozart  was  buried,  like 
a  first  love,  deeply  in  their  hearts.  How  could 
they  find  room  for  that  of  a  stranger? 

The  emperor  arrived;  the  overture,  with  its 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


spring-like  freshness,  resounded  through  the 
house;  the  curtain  rose.  The  pretty  Carolina 
appeared  with  her  secretly  espoused  husband; 
they  sang  the  charming  duo:  ^'cara,"  '^caro/' 
^'non  dubitar,"  full  of  roguishness  and  tender- 
ness; then  many  unconsciously  forgot  their 
prejudices,  many  a  serious  brow  brightened. 
As  the  music  went  splashing  on  with  the  lovely 
sound  of  a  forest-brook,  and  the  comical,  purse- 
proud  swaggerer,  Papa  Geromio,  stepped  for- 
ward, and  in  the  magnificent  air  ^'Udite,  tutte 
udite^'  gave  expression  to  the  joy  he  felt  in  the 
prospect  of  having  a  count  for  a  son-in-law, 
when  the  enamoured  Aunt  Fidalma  appeared 
with  ''ma,  con  un  marito,  via,  meglio  si  sta," 
and  the  pert  Elisetta,  who  wished  to  be  a 
countess,  and  the  jovial  Conte — then  it  seemed 
as  though  sunshine  beamed  upon  every  face. 
Many  a  mouth  smiled  that  had  long  since 
ceased  to  do  so,  and  the  most  obdurate  Mo- 
zarter  pressed  silently  the  hand  of  his  neigh- 
bour. All  felt  as  though  they  had  heard  one  of 
Mozart's  works. 

Upon  no  other  face  was  delight  in  this  grace- 
ful music  so  vividly  reflected  as  upon  that  of  a 
little,  slight  man,  clad  in  grey,  who  was  seated 
in  a  side-box.     He  followed    every  air.    every 


i234= 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


ensemble,  every  note,  with  an  almost  passionate 
sympathy;  he  sang  and  acted  with  them — but 
only  through  his  eyes.  When  the  opera  was 
over,  and  the  emperor  himself  gave  the  signal 
for  the  applause — which  was  rapturous — none 
clapped  their  hands  more  zealously  and  more 
joyfully  than  the  pale  auditor  in  the  side-box. 
The  emperor  and  his  suite  returned  to  the 
palace;  the  crowd  dispersed,  walking  or  driv- 
ing home;  the  lovers  of  music  said  to  each 
other:  *' Really,  this  Italian  deserves  to  be  a 
younger  brother  of  our  Wolfgang  Amadeus!" 

Cimarosa  himself  was  one  of  the  last  to  leave 
the  house.  Fatigued,  intoxicated  with  his  suc- 
cess, he  sauntered  slowly  towards  the  door. 
When  he  had  reached  an  entry  which  was  but 
feebly  lighted,  he  was  clasped  by  two  arms, 
and  a  soft  mouth  was  pressed  passionately  and 
tenderly  upon  his;  the  little  man  from  the 
side-box  had  thrown  his  arms  around  his  neck. 
The  Italian  gently  disengaged  himself  from  the 
enthusiast,  and  strove  to  inquire,  in  broken 
German,  if  he  had  not  made  a  mistake. 

*'No,'*  was  the  laughing  rejoinder;  **that 
kiss  was  intended  for  your  music,  and  as,  un- 
fortunately, I  cannot  kiss  it,  you  have  received 
the    embrace!     I    am    myself    somewhat    of    a 


r286: 


•MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


musician.  This  glowing,  merry  music  is  writ- 
ten so  much  to  my  mind  that  it  seems  to  me  to 
have  flown  from  my  own  soul!" 

**What  is  your  name?"  asked  the  new 
Chapel-Master.  He  drew  the  little  grey  man 
into  the  street,  placed  him  under  the  nearest 
lantern,  and  gazed  upon  a  pale  face  endowed 
with  a  pair  of  wonderful  eyes. 

**We  will  speak  of  that  afterwards,"  he 
answered;  **let  us  now  go  to  the  first  tavern, 
and,  whilst  we  drink  our  mulled  wine,  you 
must  tell  me  all  about  yourself  and  your  *Mat- 
rimonio  Segreto'!"  Humming  the  words  of 
the  Conte:  "  senza,  senza  ceremonie/'  he  drew 
the  Italian  into  a  brilliantly  lighted  room,  and 
before  ten  minutes  had  elapsed  the  two  who,  a 
few  hours  before,  had  never  seen  each  other,  sat 
with  clasped  hands  like  two  intimate  friends. 
On  the  table  smoked  a  huge  bowl  of  punch. 

As  they  sat  there,  laughing,  drinking,  be- 
coming every  moment  more  excited,  so  great 
was  the  resemblance  between  them  that  one 
might  have  taken  them  for  brothers.  Each 
had  a  refined,  ingenuous  countenance,  a  strik- 
ing brow,  a  full,  pleasing  mouth,  and  pow- 
dered hair;  they  were  of  the  same  size,  and 
had  the  same  vivacity  in  their  movements.  It 
was  in  the  eyes  alone  that  the  difference  lay. 

=236 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


Cimarosa's  black  eyes  reminded  one  of  the 
nights  of  his  fatherland;  they  possessed  the 
same  fire,  the  same  peculiar  clearness,  the  same 
exciting  enchantment.  His  companion's  eyes 
were  blue.  God  now  and  then,  as  a  consolation 
to  poor  humanity,  allows  a  pair  of  eyes  to  open 
to  the  light,  that  strike  upon  our  hearts,  when 
we  meet  them,  as  did  the  sun  upon  the  pillar 
of  Memnon,  and  awaken  all  that  is  warm,  good, 
and  noble  within  us.  Blest  is  the  child  of  man 
upon  whom  Heaven  bestows  such  eyes,  and 
fortunate  is  the  being  who  is  allowed  to  gaze 
into  them!  The  little  grey  man  owned  such 
wondrous  eyes.  Cimarosa  sat  opposite  to  him; 
in  this  man's  presence,  whose  name  he  did  not 
even  know,  his  heart  opened,  and  he  felt  forced 
to  relate  to  him  the  story  of  his  life.  We  will 
give  the  shortest  version  possible  of  his  history, 
which  he  told  in  a  mixture — often  comical 
enough — of  Italian,  French,  and  German. 

Who  could  imagine  that  in  this  playful 
'^Matrimonio  Segreto/'  in  this  real  ''opera 
huff  a/'  one  of  the  most  painful  of  the  com- 
poser's youthful  remembrances  was  concealed — 
that  it  praised  and  mentioned  a  name  that 
stood  written  in  bloody  characters  upon  his 
heart?  The  charming  roguish  music  lies 
spread  upon  it  like  fresh  roses  over — a  grave. 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


Domenico  Cimarosa  was  the  son  of  a  poor 
shoemaker  of  Naples,*  and  was  born  in  the 
year  1753.  His  childhood  passed  quietly,  in 
spite  of  manifold  privations,  and  a  faithful 
mother  watched  over  his  young  life.  The 
laughing  sky,  the  golden  fruit,  the  long  springs, 
and  the  short  winters  of  his  enchanting  father- 
land were  not  for  the  rich  alone.  It  was  not 
until  his  tender  parent  laid  her  head  upon  the 
cushions  of  eternal  slumber  that  trouble  com- 
menced for  Domenico.  His  father  had  forced 
his  son  to  learn  the  art  of  shoemaking,  but,  as 
the  boy  proved  awkward  and  sluggish  beyond 
measure  at  this  employment,  he  was,  when 
fourteen  years  old,  bound  as  an  apprentice  to 
a  rich  baker.  As  he  was  remarkable  for  his 
striking  beauty,  his  stingy  master  Geromio 
made  him  at  first  offer  pastries  for  sale  in  the 
street.  The  boy's  face,  which  was  beautiful  as 
a  picture,  attracted  many  purchasers,  especi- 
ally those  belonging  to  the  fair  sex.  However, 
as  Domenico  stopped  to  listen  to  every  per- 
formance on  the  guitar  or  hand-organ,  and  ran 
after  every  fiddler  or  singer  that  he  met,  with- 
out troubling  himself  about  basket  or  buyers, 
he  soon  deprived  him  of  this  occupation,  and 

*  Domenico  Cimarosa  was  born  at  Aversa,  in  the  king- 
dom of  Naples,  in  1753  or  1754;  his  father  removed  to 
Naples  in  the  year  1757. 

-238  = 


(JTMAEOSA 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


employed  him  in  various  light  offices  about  the 
house.  He  was  also  made  to  carry  home  early 
in  the  morning  the  fine  pastries  that  had  been 
ordered  by  their  customers.  It  appeared  to  the 
master  that  Domenico  remained  out  unusually 
long;  however,  as  he  always  delivered  the 
articles  properly — as  the  money  which  he 
brought  back  testified — Geromio  said  nothing, 
but  decided  to  watch  his  apprentice. 

It  was  on  a  February  day,  in  which  month 
the  Italian  spring  puts  on  her  most  lovely  face, 
that  the  stout  baker  stealthily  crept  after  his 
light-footed  boy.  Domenico  turned  into  the 
first  street.  Here  a  large  ragged  lad  was  wait- 
ing, to  whom  he  handed  his  basket,  together 
with  his  own  breakfast,  saying:  *' There,  Gia- 
como,— sell  them  well,  and  bring  back  the 
money  correctly!''  The  lad  set  forth;  Dome- 
nico ran  up  the  steps  of  the  first  projecting 
house,  and  disappeared.  His  master  followed 
him,  purple  with  anger.  At  the  hall-door  he 
heard  the  silvery  sound  of  a  young  female 
voice. 

**Who  resides  here?"  he  asked,  with  forced 
composure,  of  a  lazzarone  who  was  leaning 
against  the  entrance. 

''Signor  Aprile,  the  famous  singer,"  was  the 
answer. 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


And  it  was  so.  Notwithstanding  the  early 
hour  of  the  morning — for  an  Italian — the  fa- 
vourite and  pride  of  Naples,  the  singer  Gui- 
seppe  Aprile,  was  giving  a  singing-lesson.  A 
rich  young  girl,  accompanied  by  her  aunt  the 
Contessa  Fidalma,  came  hither  daily.  She 
possessed  sufficient  love  for  music  to  enable  her 
to  rise  thus  early,  and,  forsaking  her  enchant- 
ing villa  before  the  southern  gate  of  the  city, 
visited  the  celebrated  master  and  much-sought- 
for  teacher,  in  order  to  study  the  art  of  song 
with  him.  The  young  Contessa  was  scarcely 
fourteen  years  old — half  bud,  half  rose — ex- 
tremely beautiful — and  of  a  joyous  tempera- 
ment. An  orphan,  and  having  uncontrolled 
power  over  her  fortune,  she  was  besieged  by 
numerous  admirers — to  whom  she  accorded 
only  smiles.  A  distant  relation,  a  stiff  young 
Conte,  belonging  to  one  of  the  most  ancient 
families  of  Italy,  could  boast  of  the  distinction 
of  being  received  each  day  for  a  few  moments 
by  the  charming  Carolina,  of  being  allowed  to 
kiss  her  hand  and  presenting  her  with  a 
bouquet.  Even  these  few  moments  seemed  an 
eternity  to  the  young  Contessa;  for  she  cared 
not  to  be  interrupted  in  the  sports  and  diver- 
sions that  she  indulged  in  with  her  pretty 
cameriera  Elisetta.     Aunt  Fidalma  allowed  her 

-240  


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


darling  full  liberty;  she  laughed  at  her  niece's 
jests  and  mad  tricks,  found  all  that  she  did 
charming  and  original,  and  said  that  she  would 
soon  tire  of  her  pranks  and  allow  herself  to  be 
captured. 

Carolina  loved  her  aunt  as  she  loved  all  those 
who  did  not  thwart  her  wishes:  she  was  not 
unpleasant  to  her;  there  was  but  one  person 
for  whom  she  felt  awe,  and  that  was  her 
teacher  Aprile. 

It  was  this  charming  girl  whom  Domenico 
Cimarosa  had  heard  sing,  trill,  and  solfeggiare 
every  morning  for  the  past  four  months.  He 
would  lie  before  the  door,  and,  with  attentive 
ear,  listen,  until  the  noise  of  a  chair  being 
pushed  back  hastily  told  him  that  the  master 
had  arisen  and  that  the  lesson  was  at  an  end. 
Then  he  would  spring  up,  rush  into  the  street, 
and  wait  behind  a  projecting  column  until  the 
carriage  of  the  countess  drove  up  and  stopped. 
He  would  hear  the  light-blue  silk  dress  rustle, 
see  the  little  foot  in  its  black  satin  shoe  place 
itself  upon  the  step  of  the  carriage,  and  behold 
the  fair  flushed  face  turn  once  more  greetingly 
towards  the  master's  windows.  The  horses 
were  driven  away,  and  then  Domenico  de- 
parted.    He  would  loiter  dreamily  to  the  next 


241: 

16 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


corner,  where  Giacomo  waited  patiently  for 
him;  dreamily  he  would  take  the  basket,  then 
the  money  without  counting  it,  and  return  to 
his  master's  house. 

The  poor  fellow  did  not  get  so  far  on  this 
February  day;  Master  Geromio  had  no  induce- 
ment for  deferring  his  chastisement.  He 
sprang  upon  his  kneeling  apprentice  like  a 
madman,  and  struck  him  so  violently  that 
Domenico  fell  with  his  whole  weight  against 
the  door.  It  sprang  open,  and  the  young  en- 
thusiast rolled  directly  to  the  feet  of  the  Con- 
tessa  Carolina.  It  must  have  been  a  strange 
picture — this  scene^that  laid  the  foundation 
of  the  young  man 's  artistic  career !  Aprile, 
drawn  up  to  his  full  height,  indignation  de- 
picted on  his  noble  countenance;  Contessa 
Fidalma,  with  a  piercing  scream,  sinking  back 
into  a  swoon;  Carolina,  slightly  pale,  but  bend- 
ing kindly  over  the  handsome  youth  who  now 
knelt  before  her;  the  background  formed  by 
the  burly  form  of  the  baker  Geromio,  his  face 
distorted  by  rage.  Then  the  baker's  appren- 
tice spoke  with  truly  inspired  words  of  the 
deep  longing  of  his  heart — of  his  desire  to  be- 
come a  musician.  He  promised  to  serve  the 
singer  Aprile  in  the  most  menial  capacity,  if 
he  would  only  allow  him  to  listen  to  singing 

zz242  = 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


and  playing.  The  singer  could  not  withstand 
his  entreaties;  after  a  short  conversation  with 
his  pupil,  young  Cimarosa's  indentures  were 
cancelled.  Carolina  blushed  deeply  when  the 
liberated  one,  with  fiery  eyes,  kissed  her  hand 
with  all  the  grace  of  a  cavalier;  and  Fidalma, 
who  had  recovered  her  senses,  confessed  to  her- 
self, in  secret  astonishment,  that  she  had  never 
before  seen  her  niece  so  much  embarrassed. 

A  few  days  after  this  occurrence,  Aprile  dis- 
covered so  uncommon  a  talent  for  music  in  his 
new  servant,  that  he  procured  him  a  situation 
in  the  Conservatorio  de  la  pieta,  and  thence- 
forth never  lost  sight  of  him.  A  happy,  never- 
to-be-forgotten  season  then  commenced  for 
Domenico.  Allowed  to  listen,  to  study,  to  prac- 
tise, and  encouraged,  he  soon  made  remarkable 
progress;  he  was  named,  not  only  the  most  in- 
dustrious, but  also  the  most  gifted,  of  all  the 
scholars.  He  passed  his  leisure  hours  alter- 
nately with  his  patron  Aprile  and  with  the  fair 
foundress  of  his  fortune.  The  two  countesses 
invited  him  so  often  to  visit  them,  that  he 
became  every  evening  a  guest  at  the  beautiful 
villa  before  the  southern  gate.  The  young 
countess  made  him  relate  to  her  all  that  he  had 
heard  or  learned;  and  when  he  spoke  to  her  of 
the  rules  of  counterpoint,  or  of  the  method  of 

— 9.4a  - 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


his  honoured  teacher  Sacehini,  how  sweetly  did 
she  listen,  how  charmingly  naive  were  her 
questions ! 

She  generally  received  her  young  friend  in 
an  arbour  near  the  house.  There  she  sat  be- 
neath the  luxuriant  grape-vines  and  over- 
shadowing creepers.  In  her  long,  light  silk 
dress,  a  white  veil  thrown  over  her  head, 
flowers  in  her  black  braids,  and  flowers  on  her 
breast,  she  looked  like  a  fairy  apparition 
become  a  reality.  She  was  worshipped  by 
Domenico.  Through  her  alone  the  most  ardent 
wish  of  his  heart  had  been  realized.  He  could 
have  ever  knelt  in  gratitude  before  her;  as  this 
was  impossible,  he  contented  himself  with  mak- 
ing a  daily  pilgrimage  to  this  his  holy  image 
and  in  kissing  with  most  fervent  devotion 
its  miraculous  hand.  And  she?  She  blushed 
when  he  came,  and  trembled  when  he  departed : 
the  leaves  of  the  book  of  love  lay  open  before 
them,  and  they  read  the  introduction  together. 
Nearly  two  years  passed  thus;  the  handsome 
children  were  still  at  the  first  page;  no  passion- 
ate word,  that  would  have  illuminated  their 
paradise,  had  yet  escaped  their  lips.  They 
thought  not;  they  only  felt  the  sweet  to-day; 
the  morrow  troubled  them  not. 


=244: 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


One  day,  Aprile  said  to  the  young  Contessa, 
as  her  singing-lesson  ended:  ''Yesterday,  in 
speaking  of  our  protege  Cimarosa,  the  old, 
stern  Sacchini  called  him  a  star  from  which  a 
sun  might  arise.  How  this  praise  pleased  me! 
I  think  that  if  an  unhappy  passion,  a  hopeless 
love — ^with  its  despair  and  excitement — ^were 
to  take  possession  of  this  opening  bud,  the 
flower  would  unfold  quickly  and  gloriously; 
every  really  remarkable  artist  has  become  great 
through  a  sorrow.*' 

**An  unhappy  love?"  repeated  Carolina, 
growing  pale.     ''Why  not  a  happy  one?'* 

"Happiness  weakens  the  children  of  earth; 
we  cannot  endure  eternal  sunshine,  we  fade." 

"Do  you  understand  by  an  unhappy  love 
the  death  of  his  beloved?" 

"More  tragic,  more  tragic  still,  dear  coun- 
tess!   Her  marriage! '* 


On  the  following  evening,  Carolina  had 
through  some  pretext  sent  away  her  maid.  She 
listened  absently  to  her  friend's  words — she 
changed  colour  and  trembled.  "I  weary  you 
to-day!"  said  Domenico,  and  gazed  sadly  upon 
the  beautiful  maiden.  Then,  blushing  deeply, 
she    seized    his    hand,    and    whispered,    with 


^45: 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


averted  eyes:  ** Answer  my  question — but,  by 
the  soul  of  your  mother,  answer  me  truly:  do 
you  love  mef 

A  half-suppressed  cry  was  the  only  reply; 
she  felt  herself  in  Domenico's  arms,  she  saw  his 
noble  countenance  lighted  up  a  bliss  that  as- 
sured her  more  plainly  than  words  could  do,  of 
that  which  her  heart  desired  to  learn.  Before 
he  could  speak,  she  had  torn  herself  away  from 
him,  and  had  vanished. 

Elisetta  brought  the  lover — who  was  intoxi- 
cated with  delight — the  tidings  that  her  mis- 
tress would  expect  to  see  him  in  three  days' 
time.  She  placed  a  little  note  in  his  hand.  It 
contained  only  these  words: 

"I  shall  carry  the  knowledge  of  your  love 
with  me  into  eternity;  in  return,  I  shall  give 
you  a  great  grief;  do  not  be  angry  with  me, 
for  I  love  you!  Carolina." 

At  the  appointed  hour,  Domenico  entered 
the  Eden  of  his  pure  happiness:  his  heart  was 
heavy;  the  presentiment  of  a  great  sorrow 
hung  over  him.  The  garden  was  illuminated; 
music  and  voices  fell  upon  his  ear.  Trem- 
bling, he  entered  the  bosquet  that  conducted  to 
the  arbour;  all  there  was  dark.  Suddenly  two 
soft  arms  encircled  him,  and  a  beloved  voice, 

9.4fi 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


choked  with  tears,  whispered:  ''Domenico, 
forgive  me!  Aprile  says  that  happy  love 
weakens :  you  must  not  become  weak ;  you  must 
become  great,  celebrated,  glorious.  You  needed 
a  sorrow,  a  violent  sorrow;  it  shall  come  to  you 
through  m2/  hand  alone.  I  am  the  wife  of 
another ! ' ' 

A  glowing  kiss  burned  upon  Cimarosa's  lips, 
hot  tears  fell  upon  his  face,  and — he  was  alone. 
He  saw  the  beautiful,  eccentric  creature  has- 
tening away;  the  full  light  fell  upon  her  heavy 
white  satin  dress  and  the  wreath  of  orange- 
blossoms  in  her  hair.  A  man  approached  the 
slender  girl  and  offered  her  his  arm :  it  was  the 
happy  Marito,  the  stiff  Conte  with  his  bouquet. 

The  next  day  Cimarosa  forsook  Naples.  By 
the  advice  of  his  teacher  and  fatherly  friend 
Sacchini — to  whom  he  confided  the  grief  of  his 
young  heart — he  applied  for  admission  to  the 
Conservatory  of  Loretto,  where  he  studied  with 
redoubled  ardour  and  imbibed  the  wise  lessons 
of  Durante 's  school.  Aprile  had  been  a  true 
prophet.  Now  the  pinions  of  his  protege  be- 
came agitated,  and  he  soared  upon  them  higher 
and  higher,  far  above  the  thorns  and  sorrows 
of  life  The  young  musician  soon  brought  out 
an  opera,  ''II  Sacrifizio  d'  Ahramo/'  which 
immediately     excited    the     greatest    attention 

"17 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


among  composers  and  lovers  of  music.  Im- 
pelled onwards  by  the  still  too  poignant  sorrow 
in  his  breast  and  by  the  universal  recognition 
of  his  endeavours,  he  composed  works  of  con- 
sequence in  rapid  succession,  such  as  '^L^Olim- 
piade,"  ^^11  Pittore  Parigino,"  and  '^L'ltali- 
ana  in  Londra/'  which  delighted  the  whole  of 
Italy,  and  which  were  performed  even  upon 
the  German  stage.  An  honourable  livelihood, 
free  from  care,  was  secured  to  the  composer  in 
Florence.  The  wounds  of  his  heart  were  healed 
by  degrees;  how  could  the  sorrow  for  a 
woman's  loss  remain  wakeful  in  this  fiery  soul, 
in  which  countless  delicious  melodies,  that 
rocked  him  into  sweet  slumbers,  were  ever 
rising  ? 

Cimarosa  remained  three  years  in  Florence, 
and  then  accepted  an  invitation  to  St.  Peters- 
burg. The  Northern  climate,  and  the  Northern 
hearts  as  well,  gave  the  child  of  the  South  an 
insurmountable  home-sickness.  He  returned 
to  Italy  in  the  year  1791.  At  Florence  he 
heard  of  the  death  of  his  beloved,  the  beautiful 
Countess  Marito.  They  had  found  her  dead 
in  the  arbour  which  had  been  so  often  the  wit- 
ness of  their  happiness ;  and  they  said  that  she 
had  died  of  disease  of  the  heart.    She  had  been 


:248= 


MUSICAL  SKETCBES 


much  admired  at  the  theatre,  on  the  evening 
previous  to  her  death,  when  Ciraarosa's  work, 
^^Amor  costante/'  had  been  performed  for  the 
first  time  amidst  the  loud  applause  of  the 
public. 

The  land  of  love  and  song  now  became  dis- 
tasteful to  the  famous  musician;  he  acceded  to 
the  wishes  of  the  Emperor  Leopold,  and  went 
to  Vienna.  His  fame  had  penetrated  through- 
out the  whole  of  musical  Germany;  even 
among  German  composers  of  that  fertile  age, 
there  was  but  one  to  compare  with  him:  Mo- 
zart— ^Mozart,  so  inexhaustible  in  those  charm- 
ing melodies  which  the  Italians  call  '^di  prima 
intenzione.'^  Cimarosa's  astonishing  exuber- 
ance of  musical  ideas  was  such,  that  it  was 
asserted  that  the  material  for  a  whole  opera 
might  be  found  in  one  of  his  finales.  His  fer- 
tility was  as  astonishing  as  his  genius.  He 
must  have  written  forty  operas,  of  which,  how- 
ever, the  ' ^ Matrimonio  Segreto'^  is  considered 
the  most  exquisite.  He  interwove  in  this  work 
the  bitterest  and  the  sweetest  of  his  youthful 
recollections;  and  it  remained  always  his  fa- 
vourite child.  He  brought  this  lovely  creation 
to  Vienna — where  the  emperor  had  it  per- 
formed twice  in  one  evening,  so  much  was  he 


:249: 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


enraptured  with  the  work.  We  have  already 
spoken  of  its  first  representation,  at  the  com- 
mencement of  this  sketch. 

''This  is  the  history  of  my  life,"  the  Italian 
master  said,  as  he  concluded  his  simple  narra- 
tion; "I  have  spoken  to  you  as  I  never  did 
before  to  any  human  being.  Now  I  am  here  in 
Vienna;  but  I  have  one  heartfelt  wish,  which 
has  remained  ungratified  to  this  day:  I  must 
see  the  great  Mozart!  Three  times  have  I 
already  knocked  at  the  door  of  his  modest 
house — in  vain;  they  told  me  the  master  was 
ill.  I  shall  find  neither  peace  nor  repose  until 
I  have  seen  him  and  told  him  how  my  heart 
burns  for  him.  There  is  an  affinity  between 
us,  I  feel  it  with  pride;  but  he  is  borne  upon 
angel's  wings,  I  have  merely  the  pinions  of  a 
bird; — ^still  we  both  have  the  same  aim." 

The-  other  did  not  answer ;  but  extended  his 
hand  to  the  Italian,  and  gazed  upon  him  so 
strangely  with  his  wondrous  eyes  that  Cima- 
rosa  sprang  up,  exclaiming,  with  vivacity : 

''Who  are  you?  You  must  be  something 
great !  I  feel  at  one  moment  happy,  at  another 
uneasy,  beneath  your  glance.  Tell  me  your 
name ! ' ' 

Then  the  little  grey  man  smiled,  and  said: 


.250= 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


''I  have  written  the  music  of  Don  Juan,  if 
you  are  acquainted  with  it." 

Eight  days  after  the  warm  meeting  of  these 
two  congenial  souls,  on  the  5th  of  December, 
1791,  the  angels'  wings  soared  so  high  with 
.Mozart's  glorious  soul  that  it  never  again 
returned  to  earth. 

Mozart's  death  inflicted  a  deep  wound  upon 
the  heart  of  his  soul-relation.  Cimarosa  now 
felt  ill  at  ease  in  Vienna;  life  seemed  gloomier 
to  him  than  ever.  Like  an  imprisoned  bird, 
who  cannot  accustom  himself  to  his  cage,  he 
fluttered  about  the  imperial  city — where  he 
was  loved  and  honoured  as  few  strangers  had 
been — for  a  few  years.  When  the  Emperor 
Leopold,  his  lofty  patron,  closed  his  eyes, 
Cimarosa  left  Vienna,  and  with  a  sad  heart 
returned  to  Italy.  He  went  directly  to  Naples; 
he  was  irresistibly  attracted  towards  his  native 
city,  and  towards  the  grave  of  his  first,  his  only 
love.  He  had  been  there  but  two  days  when 
the  revolution  broke  out  in  Naples.  Was  it 
strange  that  this  sad,  glowing  heart  thought  to 
find  consolation  in  the  bewildering  confusion  of 
this  wild  excitement,  and  cast  itself  headlong 
into  the  midst  of  the  whirlpool?  When  Cima- 
rosa recovered  his  senses,  he  found  himself  im- 
prisoned, and  accused   of  treason    against    his 

=251 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


king.  His  high  fame  alone  averted  the  sword 
that  hovered  over  his  head;  the  king  allowed 
his  sentence  of  death  to  be  changed  to  that  of 
life-long  imprisonment.  Despite  the  violent 
lamentations  of  half  the  world,  despite  the  most 
affecting  entreaties,  the  door  of  the  prison  was 
closed  upon  him. 


Six  years  passed  by.  On  the  11th  of  Janu- 
ary, 1801,  a  new  opera  was  announced  in 
Venice ;  it  was  to  be  brought  out  in  the  evening 
at  the  theatre  la  Fenice.  The  composer  of  the 
work,  which  bore  the  title  *^ Semir amide/'  was 
not  named;  but  a  few  mysterious  words  and 
dark  intimations  attracted  the  public  in  un- 
heard-of masses.  Soldiers  and  police-officers 
were  placed  everywhere;  dead  silence  reigned 
in  the  immense  house;  every  one  awaited  some- 
thing unusual.  Then  a  side-door  was  slowly 
opened  in  the  orchestra,  and  Domenico  Cima- 
rosa,  the  long-lost  one,  tottered  in,  half  carried 
by  his  companions.  A  single  cry  from  count- 
less throats  received  him — a  cry  of  delight  and 
gratitude.  His  name  filled  the  air;  they 
pressed  around  him,  to  kiss  his  hands,  to  touch 
his  garments;  they  threw  flowers  to  him, 
waved  their  handkerchiefs,  wept  and  laughed 
wildly  in  a  breath ;  it  was  a  moving  scene.    The 

=252 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


pale,  prostrated  man,  for  whom  all  this  frantic 
rapture  was  intended,  bowed  with  a  touching 
smile;  then,  with  the  air  of  a  king,  he  seized 
his  conductor's  baton  and  led  his  work — the 
opera  Semiramide.  The  strength,  the  fire,  of 
earlier  times  appeared  to  have  been  given  him 
for  those  few  hours;  the  opera  had  great  suc- 
cess.   At  its  close,  he  fainted. 

And  wherefore  this  sudden  appearance?  It 
was  an  act  of  grace  accorded  him  by  the  king; 
it  was  the  fulfilment  of  the  prisoner's  last  wish. 
He  felt  that  his  strength  was  sinking,  and  he 
longed  to  direct  once  more  one  of  his  own  com- 
positions. 

The  night  that  followed  this  triumph  saw 
Domenico  Cimarosa  depart  with  a  glad  smile; 
he  went  to  meet  his  Mozart;  with  his  last  sigh 
he  breathed  the  name  of  Carolina, 


:253r 


A  Leonora 

BUSY  and  restless  as  are  the  merry  inhabit- 
ants of  Vienna,  fond  of  change  and  pleas- 
ure-loving as  they  show  themselves  to  be  in 
their  inclinations,  they  have  always  manifested 
a  deep,  serious,  touching,  and  unalterable  fer- 
vour in  one  feeling — in  their  affection  for  their 
great  musicians.  They  are  as  proud  of  them 
as  they  are  of  their  emperor  and — of  their 
Prater.  That  the  Viennese  cared  not  at  the 
moment  whether  their  dear  Haydn,  Mozart, 
and  Beethoven  had  their  daily  bread,  whether 
their  dwellings  were  comfortable  or  their 
purses  filled,  is  true;  but  no  one  could  or 
should  reproach  them  with  it;  for  has  not 
every  true  Viennese  ''indeed"  entirely  too 
much  to  do  for  himself?  Did  they  not  rejoice 
with  their  whole  heart,  and  did  not  their  faces 
beam  with  delight,  when  a  new  work  was. 
brought  out  by  one  of  their  favourites?  Did 
they  not  drink  their  very  good  health  in  a  glass 
of  wine,  and  bow  obsequiously  when  they  met 

— gf>4 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


them?  Do  not  smile!  This  is  much!  How 
often  is  a  master-mind  passed  unnoticed  by  his 
fellow-beings  because  the  man  is  clad  in  shabby 
garments!  No  kind  look  is  bestowed  upon  him, 
no  thanks  are  accorded  him  for  what  he  has 
created;  yet  kind  looks  and  grateful  thanks 
would  fall  upon  his  soul  like  a  sunbeam.  No 
man,  however  great  he  may  be,  can  be  deprived 
of  such  attention  without  feeling  sad. 

At  the  same  hour  every  afternoon,  a  tall  man 
walked  alone  on  the  so-called  Wasserglacis. 
Every  one  reverentially  avoided  him.  Neither 
heat  nor  cold  made  him  hasten  his  steps;  no 
passer-by  arrested  his  eye;  he  strode  slowly, 
firmly,  and  proudly  along,  with  glance  bent 
downward,  and  with  hands  clasped  behind  his 
back.  You  felt  that  he  was  some  extraordinary 
being,  and  that  the  might  of  genius  encircled 
this  majestic  head  with  its  glory.  Grey  hair 
grew  thickly  around  his  magnificent  brow,  but 
he  noticed  not  the  spring  breeze  that  played 
sportively  among  it  and  pushed  it  in  his  eyes. 
Every  child  knew:  "that  is  Ludivig  van  Bee- 
thoven, who  has  composed  such  wondrously 
beautiful  music."  As  he  approached,  they 
ceased  their  play;  they  stopped  the  balls  which 
would  have  rolled  before  the  master's  feet;  the 
whips  were  no  longer  cracked;  the  humming- 

^255  


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


tops  were  quickly  knocked  over.  Old  and 
young,  lofty  and  lowly,  stepped  to  one  side  or 
contented  themselves  with  saluting  him  with 
reverence.  None  dreamt  of  a  return  of  this 
civility;  even  porters,  laden  with  their  heavy 
burdens,  stopped  patiently,  until  the  strange 
dreamer  had  disappeared.  All  honoured  him 
after  their  own  fashion. 

At  this  time  the  Viennese  felt  an  increased 
interest  in  the  appearance  of  the  much-praised 
one;  for  Beethoven  had  concluded  his  first  and 
only  opera  ''Leonora"  (he  subsequently  named 
it  ''Fidelio"),  but  he  inflexibly  refused  to  have 
it  brought  out.  Obstinately  deaf  to  all  en- 
treaties, he  kept  the  precious  score  locked  up 
in  his  desk. 

"I  cannot  find  the  Leonora  that  I  require, '* 
he  said  to  his  friends,  who  never  wearied  of 
conjuring  him  to  have  it  represented;  "it  is 
true  that  there  are  many  singers,  but  there  is 
none  for  me.  My  Leonora  must  not  trill  and 
break  her  throat  with  roulades;  she  need  not 
change  her  costume  ten  times,  nor  be  remark- 
ably beautiful:  but  she  must  have  one  thing 
beside  her  voice,  and  what  this  one  thing  is  I 
will  not  disclose  to  you:  you  would  only  laugh 
at  the  'crazy'  Beethoven.   Let  the  opera  remain 


=256= 


IS(mKOJ) b: K- DE  V  K I  KN T 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


quietly  with  me,  and  do  not  trouble  yourselves 
about  it." 

His  impatient  friends  gave  him  no  repose; 
they  tormented  the  great  master  day  after  day. 
They  sent  him  one  singer  after  the  other,  and 
commenced  at  last  to  be  seriously  angry  with 
him.  Strange  to  say,  Beethoven  remained  pa- 
tient for  a  long  time.  One  evening  they 
pressed  him  more  than  usual,  and  spoke  to  him 
of  the  debut  of  a  young  singer  from  Ham- 
burg, of  whom  all  Vienna  was  talking.  She  was 
the  daughter  of  the  famous  actress  Sophie 
Schroder.  She  was  scarcely  seventeen  years 
old,  and  had  lately  arrived  with  her  parents  at 
the  imperial  city.  In  Mozart's  Pamina  she  had 
enchanted  the  hearts  of  all  through  the  charms 
of  her  voice  and  form;  they  unanimously 
prophesied  for  her  a  great  future,  and  did  not 
conceal  from  the  master  that  they  hoped  he 
would  allow  this  fair  hand  to  receive  his  hid- 
den treasure — his  last  work. 

Then  Beethoven  sprang  up,  exclaiming, 
angrily:  "What?  Shall  I  confide  my  holy 
gem  to  a  child,  to  a  thing  that  has  but  just  left 
school?  I  believe  that  you  are  dreaming,  or 
that  your  curiosity  has  deprived  you  of  your 
senses.     No;   Ludwig  van  Beethoven   did   not 


257. 
17 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


compose  his  Leonora  for  a  girl  of  seventeen!  I 
am  weary  of  your  importunities;  and  I  declare 
to  you,  once  for  all,  that  I  will  hum  my  opera 
if  one  of  you  but  venture  to  speak  of  it 
again ! ' ' 

He  was  so  imposing  in  his  anger,  his  eyes 
sparkled  with  so  much  fire,  his  voice  sounded 
so  like  the  rolling  of  the  thunder,  and  so  many 
clouds  shadowed  his  lofty  brow,  that  all  crept 
away.  From  that  time  forth  the  "Leonora'^ 
was  never  mentioned  before  the  master. 

For  some  time  it  happened  that  the  great 
musician  met  regularly  near  the  city,  as  he 
returned  from  his  daily  walk,  a  blonde  young 
girl.  She  generally  wore  a  simple  white  dress; 
a  little  straw  hat  was  upon  her  head,  and  a 
dark-red  shawl  was  drawn  carelessly  around 
her  handsome  shoulders.  Like  all  others  who 
met  the  meditative  man,  she  stepped  reveren- 
tially aside;  but  she  did  so  slowly  and  hesitat- 
ingly— although  with  charming  grace — and 
fastened  her  large  eyes  earnestly  upon  his 
countenance. 

They  were  eyes  of  a  wondrous  deep  blue, 
passionate,  and  fathomlessly  deep,  with  ex- 
quisite eyelashes  and  eyebrows — eyes  that  pos- 
sessed a  strangely  magnetic  power.  Her  lovely 
lips  would  tremble  whenever  the  dreamer  Bee- 

■  —258 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


thoven  brushed  by  her;  it  seemed  as  though 
she  wished  to  speak  to  him  and  yet  feared  to 
do  so ;  she  would  gaze  after  him  with  a  mingled 
expression  of  admiration  and  pain,  and  then 
return  sadly  to  the  city. 

A  storm  arose  one  afternoon.  The  thunder 
rolled  nearer,  single  flashes  of  lightning  passed 
through  the  air,  the  birds  fluttered  anxiously, 
and  all  who  were  without  hastened  to  reach 
the  protection  of  their  dwellings.  Gusts  of 
wind  arose,  but  not  a  drop  of  rain  lightened 
the  oppressive  sultriness  of  the  air.  The  voice 
of  the  thunder  sounded  loudly,  the  lightning 
flashed  wildly.  Then  Ludwig  van  Beethoven, 
returning  from  his  walk,  strode  on,  looking  like 
a  prophet.  His  head  was  thrown  back,  his 
brow  seemed  clearer  than  usual;  he  enjoyed 
fully  the  solemn  spectacle.  He  alone  seemed 
to  understand  the  magnificent  language  above 
him ;  for  he  smiled  at  the  rolling  of  the  thunder 
and  gazed  boldly  at  the  lightning.  For  him 
the  roaring  of  the  storm  was  merely  the  mighty 
swelling  sound  of  the  trombone  in  the  power- 
ful symphony  of  nature;  the  wind  that  rushed 
through  his  hair  seemed  as  if  about  to  elevate 
him  and  carry  him  away;  he  raised  his  arms 
in  singular,  mute  inspiration,  and  seemed  to 
expect    that  an    angel    would  descend    to  him 

=  259 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES^ 


upon  the  wings  of  the  lightning.  Oh,  would 
that  a  gigantic  harp  were  brought  to  him,  that 
he  might  pour  forth  the  strange  melodies  with 
which  his  inspired  soul  was  overflowing!  Sud- 
denly a  white  form  stood  before  him,  it 
trembled,  extended  its  arms  towards  him, 
hastily  murmured  a  few  incomprehensible 
words,  and  gazed  imploringly  upon  him.  The 
master  looked  with  surprise  into  the  pale  face 
of  a  young  girl.  A  remembrance  came  to  him 
with  this  lovely  face  and  charming  form.  Had 
he  not  often  seen  her  ?  Had  she  not  been  often 
near  him?  In  a  dream,  perhaps!  He  did  not 
know. 

''Child,"  he  said,  at  last,  bending  down  to 
the  young  girl,  ''why  are  you  out-of-doors  in 
such  stormy  weather?  Have  you  been  de- 
tained, or  have  you  lost  your  way?" 

A  sweet  voice  answered,  firmly  and  gently: 
* '  I  only  wished  to  see  you ! ' ' 

"To  see  me?   What  can  you  wish  from  me?" 

* '  Your Leonora ! ' ' 

Beethoven  started. 

"What  is  your  name?" 

*'Wilhelmina  Schroder.  I  have  been  stand- 
ing here  for  several  days,  hoping  to  attract 
your  attention;  to-day  for  the  first  time  I  have 
ventured  to  speak  to  you!" 

-260 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


*'And  did  you  not  perceive  the  approaching 
storm?    Did  you  not  feel  afraid?" 

"I  feared  but  one  thing:  that  you  would 
refuse  my  prayer!" 

The  master  did  not  answer.  He  looked  earn- 
estly into  the  maiden's  blue  eyes.  She  blushed 
deeply,  but  did  not  lower  them.  Then 
Beethoven  took  the  lovely  maiden's  little  hands 
in  his  firm  gra^p,  breathed  deeply,  as  though 
relieved,  and  said,  mildly: 

**Come  to  me  early  to-morrow  morning,  my 
child,  and  be  of  good  cheer;  I  think  I  have 
found  my  Leonora.  Now  away  from  here;  I 
will  conduct  you  home!" 

With  a  happy  smile,  glowing  cheeks,  and 
beating  heart,  she  took  his  arm:  the  fulfilment 
of  her  ardent  wish  was  at  hand.  The  storm 
had  ceased,  the  lightning  flashed  feebly,  a  re- 
freshing rain  commenced.  At  the  city  gate 
Beethoven  lifted  the  young  girl,  with  fatherly 
care,  into  a  carriage  that  was  passing,  and 
Wilhelmina  Schroder  gave  the  driver  her 
mother's  address.  At  parting,  she  kissed  the 
master's  hand  with  childish,  overflowing  enthu- 
siasm. He  looked  back,  and  beheld  the  lovely 
young  girl  leaning  from  the  window;  her 
countenance  was  pale  from  deep  emotion,  and 
her  youthful,    serious    brow    was    encircled  by 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


golden  hair.  She  greeted  him  gently,  and  the 
magical  eyes  smiled  upon  him.  Ludwig  van 
Beethoven  felt  a  wondrous  warmth  stealing 
through  his  heart;  a  presentiment,  both  painful 
and  pleasing,  flashed  across  his  mind;  he  said 
to  himself,  softly:  '^This  woman  will  throw 
one  more  sunbeam  upon  my  path — ^the  last 
one!" 


On  the  following  morning,  Wilhelmina 
Schroder,  the  young  singer,  stood  by  Bee- 
thoven's side  at  the  piano.  The  score  of  his 
Leonora  lay  open  before  him.  He  had  briefly 
explained  the  plot  of  the  opera  to  the  blonde 
maiden,  and  then,  marking  the  time  with  one 
hand  and  playing  the  accompaniment  with  the 
other,  he  hummed  softly  the  part  of  Leonora  in 
the  quartet: 

„^tt  tft  \o  tounbexBat." 

The  young  girl  followed  each  note  with  at- 
tention.   At  the  trio : 

her  blue  eyes  flashed  passionately.     But  when 
the  magnificent  painting  of  the  great  air: 

„»f(^eulid§ex,  too  totllft  bu  l^tn!" 
was    unfolded    to    her    soul,    a    thrill    of    the 
most  profound  emotion  ran  through  her  frame. 

=262 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


The  excitement  of  the  half-breathless  listener 
continued  to  increase;  the  master  played  and 
hummed,  as  if  inspired.  She  did  not  hear  how 
broken  and  harsh  sounded  the  voice  that  ren- 
dered the  glorious  music,  nor  did  she  know  that 
at  the  duet  of  the  second  act  : 

„5lut  l§uttig  fott,  unb  fttf(^  gegxaBen," 

the  tears  rolled  slowly  and  heavily  down  her 
cheeks.  She  could  not  turn  her  eyes  from  the 
wonderful  man  who  sat  before  her  and  whom 
she  so  deeply  honoured.  What  a  peculiar,  cap- 
tivating picture  those  two  beings  presented  in 
the  narrow  frame  of  the  simple  room — one 
representing  fruitful,  serious  Autumn,  the 
other,  smiling  Spring!  The  master,  with  his 
loose  dressing-gown  bordered  with  fur,  with 
sparkling  eyes  and  beaming  brow,  absorbed  in 
his  work,  and  casting  now  and  then  a  deep  and 
earnest  glance  upon  the  face  of  his  auditor — 
the  young  girl,  upon  whose  maidenly  form  and 
exquisitely  pure  features  Spring  had  spread 
her  freshness,  while  the  sunlight  trembled  in 
the  heavy  blonde  hair,  that  clung  to  the  fair 
cheeks  and  formed  a  golden  knot  in  the  proud 
neck. 

There  hung  upon  her  youthful  brows 
As  many  hopes  as  in  the  boughs 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


Are  blossoms,  bright,  and  rich,  and  gay. 
In  the  blissful  month  of  May. 

Beethoven's  hand  hastened  more  and  more 
over  the  keys! 

''Now  comes  the  most  elevated  part,"  he 
said;  "in  this  are  assembled  the  rays  of  light 
of  the  whole  opera.  Pay  attention  to  this  cry; 
all  depends  upon  it,  my  child;  you  will  show 
me  at  this  point  whether  I  have  been  mistaken 
in  you  or  not!" 

And  he  now  gave,  with  touching  inspiration, 
the  famous  cry : 

„%m  exft  fern  SBetB!" 

Wilhelmina  Schroder  now  realized  the  mag- 
nitude of  the  task  which  she  herself  had 
sought;  trembling  she  folded  her  hands; 
anxiety  and  happiness  filled  her  breast.  "First 
kill  his  wife!"  this  cry  resounded  in  her  ears; 
she  heard  nothing  more;  the  brilliant  finale 
glided  by  her  like  a  dream.  When  Beethoven 
arose  and  closed  the  score,  she  approached  him 
with  unsteady  steps. 

"The  effort  that  I  would  venture  upon  is 
great;  bless  me,  so  that  it  may  be  successful!" 
she  said,  solemnly,  and  bent  her  head. 

The  master  laid  his  hand  thoughtfully  upon 
the  blonde  head,   and  a  smile  of  contentment 

-264  == 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


flitted  like  an  autumn  sunbeam  over  his  grave 
countenance. 

Before  the  young  girl  slept,  that  evening, 
she  folded  her  beautiful  hands,  and  terminated 
her  evening  prayer  with  the  words:  ''0  God, 
let  me  become  the  Leonora  that  he  imag- 
ined. Allow  me  to  bring  one  more  joy  to  his 
heart!'' 


A  few  weeks  after  this  scene,  Wilhelmina 
Schroder  appeared  in  Vienna,  in  the  opera  of 
''Fidelio. "  The  composer  himself  sat  in  a 
dark  little  box  near  the  stage.  Alas!  the  sweet 
and  powerful  tones  that  flowed  from  the  lips 
of  the  young  singer  reached  his  almost  entirely 
closed  ear  but  feebly  and  indistinctly.  He 
beheld  the  fire  and  ardour  of  her  performance; 
he  saw  her  eyes  filled  with  passion  and  inspira- 
tion; and  the  acclamations  that  burst  from  the 
lips  of  the  crowd  rose  around  him  like  the  roar- 
ing of  the  distant  sea.  The  second  act  began; 
the  beautiful  woman  descended  into  the  dun- 
geon, handed  her  starving  husband  the  bread, 
passed  through  every  stage  of  soul-martyrdom, 
and  then  came  the  wondrous  luminous  point, 
that  powerful  cry  of  anguish : 

„%m  etft  fetn  2Betl6!" 

=^265  = 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES-. 


Beethoven  arose  in  feverish  excitement.  He 
gasped  for  breath;  his  immense  form  quiv- 
ered; his  eyes  were  fastened  upon  the  singer's 
lips.  For  a  second  she  seemed  to  hesitate; 
suddenly  she  drew  herself  up  in  a  truly  mag- 
nificent manner,  and  dashed  this  vibrating  h 
with  the  greatest  passion  into  the  souls  of  her 
much-moved  auditors.  And  then  a  miracle 
took  place;  this  powerful  b,  filled  with  soul- 
like  a  revelation  of  light— penetrated  through 
every  barrier,  and  reached  the  master's  closed 
ear. 

Suddenly  his  work  mirrored  itself,  as  it  were, 
in  the  glorious,  overwhelming  h  that  he  had 
heard — as  the  universe  mirrors  itself  in  a 
single  crystal  drop.  Unspeakable,  boundless 
rapture  seized  him.  He  had  not  been  deceived 
in  this  Leonora!  He  would  have  liked  to  clasp 
the  young  girl  to  his  heart,  to  have  bathed  her 
in  his  tears;  long-buried  wishes,  long-banished 
hopes,  arose  from  their  graves  and  gazed  smil- 
ingly upon  him.  The  sudden  feeling  of  happi- 
ness overcame  this  man,  so  strong  in  affliction, 
so  accustomed  to  sorrow:  Ludwig  van  Bee- 
thoven fainted. 

This  representation  of  ''Fidelio"  was  indeed 
the  last — although  perhaps  the  most  dazzling — 


=266. 


MUSICAL  SKETCSE8 


sunbeam  that  fell  upon  the  gloomy  path  of  the 
sublime  composer. 

What  could  it  have  been  that  Ludwig  van 
Beethoven  demanded  of  the  performer  of  his 
Leonora,  and  that  he  found  in  the  blue  eyes  of 
this  young  maiden? 

Wilhelmina  Schroder  carried  the  Leonora 
into  the  world.  Who  could  hear  the  Fidelio 
(the  idealization  of  the  heroism  of  pure  love) 
as  performed  by  her,  and  ever  forget  it?  Many 
singers  have  taken  the  part;  but  did  ever  one 
of  them  possess  the  power  to  impress  the  soul 
as  did  she?  Were  none,  then,  so  beautiful  as 
Wilhelmina  Schroder-Devrient,  had  none  so 
powerful  a  voice  or  such  enchanting  grace? 
Oh,  certainly!  Charming  women  have  donned 
the  simple  male  attire  of  Fidelio,  magnificent 
voices  have  sung  to  us  the  air:  *' Monster, 
whither  dost  thou  hasten?'*  perfect  actresses 
have  personated  this  character;  but  did  the 
cry:  '* First  kill  his  wife!"  ever  escape  from 
any  other  lips  with  such  magnificent,  over- 
powering force  as  from  those  of  this  blonde 
woman?  And  why?  Here  follows  the  solu- 
tion of  all  inquiries.  Wilhelmina  Schroder- 
Devrient  possessed  that  rare  charm  that  con- 
quers   the    world — that    enigmatical    treasure 


=267= 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


which,  in  our  cold  and  languid  age,  has  become 
almost  a  tradition — that  most  precious  gem 
upon  earth,  that  most  beautiful  blessing  of 
heaven:  a  warm  heart! 


Little  Jean  Baptist 

IT  was  at  nine  o'clock  in  the  evening  of  the 
24th  of  October,  1658,  that  a  large  and  bril- 
liant company  had  assembled  in  Paris  at  the 
palace  of  the  elegant  Marquise  Saint-Remi. 
The  long  suite  of  apartments,  furnished  in  the 
heavy  and  luxurious  taste  of  the  time,  shone 
with  the  dazzling  light  of  tapers.  The  large 
hall  at  the  end  of  the  rooms  was  divided  upon 
this  occasion  by  a  purple  curtain,  that  seemed 
to  conceal  a  pleasant  secret.  Upon  lowly 
benches  were  seated  a  few  old  musicians,  be- 
longing to  the  famous  troop  called  ^Hes  vingt- 
quarte  violons.''  They  held  *their  instruments 
in  their  hands,  and  cast  inquisitive  glances 
upon  the  radiant  assemblage  that  moved  before 
them. 

Many  beautiful  women,  clad  in  costly  robes, 
with  wide-spread  skirts,  their  necks  and  bosoms 
decked  with  sparkling  jewels,  and  the  young 
men  in  embroidered  court-dresses,  stood  in 
groups  or  walked,  whispering  confidentially, 
about  the  apartments.  A  few  elderly  ladies  of 
the  highest  rank  were  seated  upon  richly  gilded 
chairs,  and  had  attracted  a  group  of  courtiers 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


about  them,  who  respectfully  watched  their 
every  look  and  word.  The  conversation  turned 
mostly  upon  the  last  fete  at  court — upon  the 
approaching  betrothal  of  Philip  of  Orleans 
with  the  charming  Henrietta  of  England,  who 
was  not  yet  fifteen  years  old — or  upon  yon  cur- 
tained surprise.  Then  it  began  to  be  known 
that  they  were  to  have  a  new,  exquisitely  lovely 
pastoral,  by  I'Abbe  Perrin,  the  melodies  of 
which  had  been  set  to  music  by  Michel  Lambert. 
The  amiability  of  the  marquise  in  opening  her 
house  to  her  daughter's  music-teacher  for  such 
a  purpose  was  much  praised.  The  gentlemen 
endeavoured  to  discover  who  the  actresses  were 
to  be;  the  ladies  teased  the  elegant  abbe,  the 
author  of  the  play;  while  he,  pale  and  excited, 
sought  to  conceal  himself  in  the  window-niches; 
in  a  word,  all  were  in  a  state  of  pleasant  ex- 
pectation. 

Michel  Lambert  was  received  everywhere. 
No  one  could  excel  his  performance  upon  the 
lute.  It  was  said  that  he  had  formerly  played 
and  sung  almost  daily  for  the  dreaded  Car- 
dinal Richelieu,  as  did  once  David  for  the 
gloomy  Saul.  He  was  the  best  singing-master 
in  Paris,  and  his  handsome,  carefully  tended 
hands  sparkled  with  costly  rings,  presents  from 
his  fair  high-born  pupils,  while  each  day  saw 

-?.70  == 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


his  embroidered  jabot  decked  with  a  different 
pin  set  in  precious  stones.  Little  now  re- 
mained of  his  once  pleasing  voice;  but  Michel 
Lambert  no  longer  needed  its  assistance  to  gain 
the  favour  of  the  elegant  society  of  Paris;  his 
reputation  was  firmly  established.  They  hon- 
oured him  as  the  composer  of  the  '' Trait e  de 
Vaccompagnement  du  clavecin,  de  Vorgue,  et 
de  quelques  autres  instrumens/'  as  well  as  of 
the  ^'Principes  du  clavecin."*  He  had  also 
composed  several  very  pleasing  trios,  which  were 
played  and  listened  to  with  equal  pleasure. 

He  was  not  to  be  seen  amidst  the  company 
upon  this  occasion;  he  was  behind  the  curtain 
with  his  actors,  seeking  in  vain  to  dispel  that 
** uncomfortable  something"  that  a  young  girl 
is  apt  to  feel  before  her  first  ball,  a  young 
soldier  before  his  first  battle,  or  a  young  author 
before  the  first  performance  of  his  play. 

Behind  the  hall,  the  half  of  which  had  been 
altered  into  a  stage,  were  three  side-cabinets. 
Two  of  them  opened  into  the  hall,  and  had 
been  given  to  the  actors.  The  third  had  a  glass 
window  looking  into  the  hall;  it  was  connected 
by  a  door    with    the    inner    apartments  of   the 

*  The  writer  confounds  Michel  Lambert  with  Saint- 
Lambert,  another  teacher  of  music,  and  author  of  the 
**  Traits  d^accompagnement,* '  etc. — Translator. 

-271  == 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


house,  and  by  a  concealed  staircase  with  the 
garden.  It  was  the  oratory  of  the  marquise. 
The  before-mentioned  window  was  doubtless 
intended  to  give  additional  light  to  the  room, 
for  the  other  one  looked  upon  the  garden,  and 
in  spring,  summer,  and  autumn  was  made 
almost  entirely  useless,  so  shaded  was  it  by  the 
huge  chestnut-trees  without.  Red  silk  curtains 
fell  in  heavy  folds  to  the  floor,  upon  which  a 
rich  carpet  was  spread,  while  a  costly  lamp 
diffused  a  soft  light  through  the  room.  This 
evening  the  oratory  looked  quite  worldly.  The 
repentant  Magdalen  that  hung  upon  the  wall 
was  covered,  and  the  artistically  carved  prie- 
Dieu  had  been  removed  to  a  corner.  A  hand- 
some chair  and  a  few  stools  were  placed  near 
the  window  that  looked  into  the  hall,  and  a 
marble  table  had  been  drawn  into  the  centre  of 
the  room.  It  was  laden  with  the  rarest  and 
choicest  refreshments,  and  a  magnificent  agate 
dish,  filled  with  beautiful  flowers  and  fruits, 
stood  in  the  centre  of  the  table. 

The  tapestry  door  of  this  charming  apart- 
ment opened  noiselessly,  and  two  maidenly 
forms  glided  in,  just  as  the  musicians  com- 
menced to  tune  their  instruments. 

**Come,  fear  not,  Margot,*'  whispered  the 
shorter    of    the    two    to  her    companion,    who 

==278 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


seemed  loath  to  enter;  ''here  we  are  secure. 
No  one  knows  of  this  hiding  place  save  mamma 
and  papa,  and  they  will  surely  never  think  of 
seeking  us  here.  How  delightful  it  will  be  to 
see  and  hear  every  thing  through  this  little 
window!  I  can  no  longer  endure  this  confine- 
ment in  the  convent  or  in  the  nursery!  How 
long  one  must  wait  before  arriving  at  the  age 
of  sixteen !  But  look,  for  whom  can  they  have 
set  this  table?"  The  sight  of  the  skilfully 
arranged  flowers  and  fruits  stopped  the 
speaker's  speech.  The  other  young  girl  drew 
near,  and  they  both  cast  curious  glances  upon 
the  rare  delicacies  placed  in  golden  cups  seem- 
ingly to  provoke  the  appetite  of  some  unknown 
guest. 

*'For  whom  can  they  have  set  this  table?" 
anxiously  repeated  the  taller  of  the  two. 

**For  whom  except  for  papa?"  the  other 
cried,  joyfully,  after  a  short  meditation.  ''Has 
he  not  told  me  a  thousand  times  how  stiff  and 
tedious  it  was  at  these  great  festivals,  and  the 
pleasure  it  gave  him  when  he  was  able  to  escape 
from  them  for  an  hour  or  two  ?  He  wishes  to  do 
this  now,  and  therefore  has  had  this  apartment 
prepared  for  him.  This  is  glorious!  Papa  will 
not  scold  if  he  find  us  here.  He  has  never 
scolded  me  since  I  have  been  his  daughter!" 


=273= 


18 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


*'Yes,  the  marquis  is  a  good  step-father  to 
you,  Louison!" 

''So  good  that  I  often  feel  sad  that  I  do  not 
bear  his  name,  and  am  called  'Louise  de  La 
Valliere'  instead  of  'Louise  de  Saint-Remi/ 
Do  you  think  he  would  look  serious  if  we  were 
to  taste  some  of  these  dainties?  We  have  time 
to  do  so.  It  is  not  yet  ten  o'clock;  and  I 
scarcely  think  that  they  will  commence  to  play 
before  eleven,  as  the  servants  have  just  carried 
in  the  refreshments.  Come,  let  us  sup  also, 
dear  Margot.  What  would  Papa  Lambert  say  if 
he  knew  how  near  we  are  to  him?" 

Margot  laughed,  and  nodded.  The  young 
girls  drew  their  stools  to  the  table,  and  par- 
took of  the  dainties. 

The  light  of  the  lamp  fell  full  upon  their 
figures.  Neither  of  them  knew  how  beautiful 
they  were  at  this  moment.  The  smaller  and 
livelier  of  the  two  was  Louise  de  La  Valliere,  a 
child  of  fifteen,  the  only  daughter  of  the  Mar- 
quise Saint-Remi  by  a  former  marriage.  She 
was  blonde,  white,  and  rosy — a  bewitching  elf, 
with  laughing  blue  eyes  and  a  lovely  mouth. 
Happy  in  being  released  for  a  few  days  from 
the  convent  in  which  she  was  being  educated, 
no  less  happy  in  the  successful  issue  of  her 
cunning  plan  to  see  Perrin's  Pastoral,   and  to 

-274  


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


listen  to  the  music  of  her  teacher  Lambert,  she 
was  in  the  gayest  spirits.  Half  kneeling,  half 
reclining,  she  leaned  upon  the  table.  A  loose 
white  dress,  somewhat  tumbled,  and  worn  with- 
out hoops,  floated  about  her  limbs;  it  was 
trimmed  with  heavy  blue  bows,  and  a  boquet  of 
faded  autumn  flowers  was  fastened  upon  her 
breast.  No  powder  lay  upon  her  golden  locks, 
among  which  her  charming  little  hands  had 
produced  much  disorder. 

Her  companion  was  Margot  Lambert,  the 
sixteen-year-old  child  of  the  music-teacher. 
She  was  the  true  daughter  of  her  splendour- 
loving  father,  and  was  very  carefully  dressed 
in  a  wide-spread  robe  of  heavy  silk  of  a  pale 
pink  colour,  trimmed  with  lace,  while  feathers 
and  pearls  adorned  the  well-powdered  dark 
hair.  Her  costume  suited  admirably  her  hand- 
some face,  with  its  large  dark  eyes,  and  Margot 
Lambert,  despite  her  sixteen  years,  behaved 
herself  so  gracefully  and  prettily,  and  seemed 
so  self-possessed,  that  he  who  had  looked  upon 
her  at  that  moment  for  the  first  time  would 
unquestionably  have  taken  her  for  Mademoi- 
selle de  La  Valliere,  and  Louison  for  the  music- 
teacher 's  daughter.  Louison  was  timid  when 
with  strangers,  and  only  free  and  joyous  when 
among  her  companions  or  with  her  step-father. 

—275 


MITSICAL  SKETCHES 


Margot,  on  the  contrary,  had  early  been  accus- 
tomed to  society,  especially  to  that  of  men;  for 
her  father  received  much  company,  and  since 
her  mother's  death,  which  had  occurred  three 
years  previously,  she  had  presided  at  his 
table. 

*'If  one  could  only  be  there,"  whispered 
Margot,  pointing  to  the  hall,  "among  those 
splendidly  dressed  ladies  and  gentlemen!" 

*'No,  not  for  a  moment,"  answered  Louison, 
picking  up  a  magnificent  bunch  of  grapes  and 
slowly  plucking  off  berry  after  berry,  ''do  I 
wish  to  be  with  all  those  stiff  people.  Ah,  if  all 
ladies  were  as  friendly  and  as  beautiful  as  you 
and  mamma,  and  all  the  gentlemen  as  gay  and 
agreeable  as  Monsieur  Quinault,  who  comes  to 
read  his  verses  to  the  marquise " 

''Ah,  Quinault;  I  know  him  also.  He  is 
handsome ;  but, ' '  said  the  slender  Margot  rather 
contemptuously,  "he  will  never  be  a  courtier! 
Does  he  really  please  you,  or  is  it  merely  his 
verses  that  you  like?" 

"When  I  have  been  permitted  to  sit  at 
mamma's  feet  and  listen,  I  have  found  the 
reader  quite  as  handsome  as  his  verses.  He 
gazes  upon  me  in  a  friendly  manner,  and 
never  treats  me  like  a  child ;  all  this  makes  him 
seem  quite  charming  to  me ! " 

276  = 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


**I  think  that  you  would  suit  each  other  well. 
Like  you,  he  would  only  go  to  court  when 
forced  to  do  so." 

''What  should  he  do  there?  That  is  just 
what  I  like  about  him!  Now  he  is  a  free  bird, 
and  can  sing  where  he  pleases  and  as  he  pleases. 
Were  he  at  court,  they  would  place  him  in  a 
golden  cage,  over  which  they  would  hang  a 
handkerchief  when  they  wished  to  silence  him. 
No,  we  will  remain  together,  Quinault  and  I! 
Perhaps  I  may  become  his'  wife  some  day! 
Mamma  so  often  teases  us  about  our  friendship 
for  one  another.  Then  we  will  have  a  beautiful 
little  castle,  situated  in  a  forest,  and  he  shall 
read  me  his  verses  all  day  long.  You  shall  visit 
us,  Margot.  There  must  be  a  large,  deep  pond 
around  the  castle,  with  swans  floating  upon  it, 
and-^-" 

*'But,  Louison,  you  are  to  go  to  court  in  two 
years'  time;  you  are  to  be  a  maid  of  honour! 
Do  you  entirely  forget  that  ? ' ' 

Louison  laid  aside  her  grapes,  and  rested  her 
head  upon  her  hand.  A  deep  sadness  suddenly 
clouded  her  childlike  face.  "Why  remind  me 
of  this?"  she  said,  in  a  melancholy  voice;  "I 
was  so  happy  to-night.  This  thought  spoils 
every  thing  for  me  My  mother  laughs  at  me, 
and  my   father   also,   but  I  cannot  help   it,   I 

=r277 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


dread  going  to  court  as  much  now  as  I  formerly 
feared  to  sleep  alone  in  the  dark/' 

**  Would  that  I  could  exchange  places  with 
you!"  said  Lambert's  daughter,  with  sparkling 
eyes. 

"And  I  should  like  very  well  to  be  your 
father's  daughter,"  answered  Louison,  with  re- 
turned gayety ;  "he  is  always  good  and  patient ; 
but  do  not  be  angry  with  me,  Margot  I  could  not 
fancy  the  bold  violinist  that  you  intend  to  marry. ' ' 

"Little  Jean  Baptiste  will  become  more 
famous  than  will  your  Quinault,"  remarked 
Margot,  visibly  offended.  "Besides,  I  shall  not 
marry  him  until  the  king  himself  has  danced 
to  the  music  of  his  violin.  And  I  have  told  him 
so.  He  plays  now  more  beautifully  than  any 
one  in  the  troop  of  the  ^ vingt-quatre  violons;^ 
and  I  wager  if  the  young  king  were  once  to  hear 
him  perform,  he  would  dance  to  his  exquisite 
melodies  with  as  much  pleasure  as  I  do.  But 
how  approach  young  Louis?" 

"Wait  until  I  am  maid  of  honour  and  wear 
a  stiff  dress  and  tight  shoes.  Then  I  will  inter- 
cede for  your  bold  little  Jean  Baptiste,  as  well 
as  for  my  good,  timid  Quinault.  I  shall  then 
see  the  king  daily,  and  I  shall  not  feel  more  fear 
of  him  than  I  now  do  of  others.  Look,  I  should 
appear  before  him  thus." 

-278  = 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


She  sprang  from  her  seat,  drew  herself  up  to 
her  full  height,  and,  smiling  upon  her  friend,  held 
each  side  of  her  dress  gracefully,  and,  making 
slowly  a  deep  courtesy,  said,  solemnly:  *'Sire  " 

*'Wait!"  Margot  cried,  ''let  me  adorn  you 
for  this  representation.  Here  is  a  magnifiqent 
rose.  So — I  have  placed  it  in  your  hair.  Now, 
once  more,  Louison;  you  are  more  apt  than  I 
thought!" 

**Sire!"  Louison  began  anew. 

Suddenly  the  tapestry  door  behind  them 
opened  noiselessly,  and  the  Marquis  Saint-Remi 
ushered  in,  with  great  reverence,  a  tall  stranger. 
Astonished,  they  stood  upon  the  threshold,  and 
gazed  upon  the  lovely  group. 

At  length  the  marquis  beheld  the  destruction 
of  the  artistic  arrangement  of  the  table,  and 
cried:  ''Unhappy  children!"  Louison  started. 
"Papa,"  she  cried,  and  rushed  towards  her 
step-father,  without  heeding  the  stranger,  "you 
are  not  angry;  is  it  not  so?  I  felt  so  great  a 
desire  to  see  a  pastoral,  and  to  listen  to  the 
music  of  my  teacher  Lambert.  And  so  Margot 
and  I  intended  to  peep  through  the  window. 
Oh,  do  not  be  offended  with  us!" 

During  this  speech  Margot  pulled  her  friend 's 
dress,  and  the  marquis  strove  to  interrupt  her; 
but  in  vain. 

-?.79  = 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


As  she  concluded,  the  stranger  advanced, 
bowed,  and  said,  jestingly:  ''Here  is  another 
who  also  wishes  to  peep.  Will  Mademoiselle  de 
La  Yalliere  permit  him  to  do  so  ? " 

At  the  first  tones  of  his  wondrously  melodious 
voice,  a  thrill  passed  through  the  young  girl's 
frame.  Slowly  she  turned  her  eyes  towards 
him,  and  her  glance  met  those  fiery  command- 
ing eyes  whose  power  no  woman  could  resist 
when  they  condescended  to  entreat — the  eyes 
of  the  young  king,  Louis  the  Fourteenth. 

Louison  had  never  seen  him ;  but  she  felt  that 
the  king  stood  before  her,  and  a  death-like  pallor 
covered  her  face.  Then  a  glowing  red  suffused 
her  cheeks;  confused,  ashamed,  overwhelmed 
by  a  flood  of  inexplicable  conflicting  feelings, 
and  half  sobbing,  she  turned  to  Margot,  and 
cried:  *'0h,  we  have  eaten  the  finest  of  his 
grapes ! ' ' 

This  charming,  childish  exclamation  made 
the  young  king  laugh  heartily.  The  marquis, 
who  could  not  endure  to  see  his  step-daughter's 
grief,  soon  joined  in  his  merriment.  A  few 
words  sufficed  to  explain  the  unexpected  ap- 
pearance of  the  two  young  girls  in  the  room 
from  whose  window  Louis,  by  a  secret  arrange- 
ment with  the  marquis,  had  wished  to  view  the 
new  pastoral  unseen.     Louis  himself  interceded 

-280  =. 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


for  the  ** little  ones;"  they  were  allowed  to 
remain,  and,  placed  directly  in  front  of  the 
king,  watched  the  play  from  the  window. 

The  marquis,  with  a  light  heart,  stood  behind 
the  chair  of  his  lofty  master.  During  the  per- 
formance the  young  girls  seemed  to  have  com- 
pletely forgotten  their  high-born  neighbour. 
Louison  sat  as  though  turned  into  a  statue;  her 
glorious  blue  eyes  alone  lived  and  sparkled. 
Margot  often  inclined  her  beautiful  head  to- 
wards her  friend,  and  whispered  and  laughed. 
The  marquis  was  occasionally  obliged  to  bid  her 
be  still.  The  king  seemed  more  entertained  by 
the  pleasing  scene  so  near  to  him  than  by  the 
pompous  verses  and  stiff  melodies  without;  he 
scarcely  turned  his  eyes  from  the  young  girls. 
The  piece  ended  amid  the  loud  applause  of  the 
elegant  assemblage.  Louis  the  Fourteenth  then 
arose,  and,  with  a  joyous  air,  said:  **I  should 
like  to  make  these  two  lovely  children  forget 
the  fright  that  I  unwittingly  caused  them.  If 
they  will  express  a  wish  to  me,  by  my  royal 
word,  I  will  fulfil  it  if  it  be  possible.  Speak, 
my  charming  Mademoiselle  de  La  Valliere!" 

But  the  childish,  merry  Louison  was  suddenly 
strangely  embarrassed  and  mute.  She  trem- 
bled, changed  colour,  and  could  not  speak. 
Upon  the  repeated  inquiry  of  her  step-father 

=281  


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


whether  she  had  nothing  to  request  from  the 
king's  favour,  she  hastily  shook  her  head  and 
timidly  drew  back.  Then  Margot  advanced, 
and,  courtesying  as  she  had  seen  Louison  do 
before  the  king  entered,  she  looked  boldly  up  to 
him  with  her  flashing  eyes,  and  said:  "Sire, 
my  betrothed  is  a  very  skilful  violinist;  allow 
him  to  perform  for  you,  and  give  him  a  good 
situation  among  your  musicians." 

"How  is  the  happy  one  called,  my  beautiful 
child?"  asked  the  young  king,  smiling. 

"He  is  only  called  'Little  Jean  Baptiste;' 
but  his  real  name  is  Lully,  Sire,  and  he  is  a 
native  of  Florence." 

* '  Sire,  the  little  fellow  is  really  no  poor  musi- 
cian," whispered  the  marquis.  "When  he  was 
twelve  years  old  he  was  brought  to  Paris  by  the 
Chevalier  de  Guise,  who,  forgetting  his  bril- 
liant promises,  allowed  him  to  enter  the  service 
of  Mademoiselle  de  Montpensier  as  a  scullion. 
A  hard  fate  for  a  gentleman's  son!  In  his 
leisure  moments  he  amused  himself  by  playing 
upon  a  wretched  violin.  The  Count  de  Nogent, 
hearing  him  one  day  accidentally,  was  struck 
by  his  performance,  and  hastened  to  inform 
Mademoiselle  de  Montpensier  of  the  precocious 
talent  of  her  young  servant,  and  advised  her  to 
give  him  a  teacher.     Lully  soon  obtained  a  place 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


among  the  violinists  of  the  princess,  and  be- 
came celebrated  not  only  for  his  execution  upon 
his  instrument,  but  for  the  airs  which  he  com- 
posed. Lambert  thinks  so  much  of  little  Jean 
Baptiste  that  he  has  betrothed  him  to  his  only- 
daughter.  ' ' 

**Then  I  suppose  that  you  would  gladly  be 
married  at  once?"  inquired  the  king. 

*'Our  happiness  lies  now  in  your  hands, 
Sire,"  said  Margot,  roguishly  smiling;  ''only 
allow  little  Jean  Baptiste  to  perform  for  you. 
You  do  not  know  how  beautiful  his  dancing 
melodies  are;  a  king  need  not  be  ashamed  to 
dance  to  them." 

''Well,  we  are  anxious  to  try  them.  Send 
me  your  Italian.  I  will  listen  to  him.  If  he  be 
only  half  as  good  as  you  say,  I  will  assist  him 
to  his  happiness — to  his  beautiful  wife !  * ' 

With  a  friendly  greeting,  Louis  the  Four- 
teenth turned  to  go.  Louison's  rose  fell  close 
to  his  feet.  He  did  not  notice  it,  and,  stepping 
heedlessly  upon  the  flower,  crushed  it.  The 
maiden  picked  it  up  unseen. 

Margot,  intoxicated  with  joy,  threw  her  arms 
around  her  little  friend's  neck.  "But  why," 
asked  she,  when  her  delight  had  somewhat  sub- 
sided, "did  you  not  petition  for  your  Quin- 
ault?" 

: ^2S3 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


''For  my  Quinault?"  repeated  Louison,  so 
distantly  and  so  proudly  that  Margot  gazed 
upon  her  with  astonishment.  ''Remind  me  of 
it  when  I  am  a  maid  of  honour." 

The  next  day  Louison  de  La  Valliere,  weep- 
ing, entered  the  heavy  coach  which  was  to 
carry  her  back  to  the  Convent  of  the  Ursulines. 
All  Paris  knew  and  laughed  at  the  trick  of  the 
"little  girls,"  and  none  enjoyed  it  more  than 
Pere  Lambert. 

Two  days  after  the  representation  of 
^^Pomone,"  Jeam  Baptiste  Luily  presented  him- 
self before  his  fair  betrothed  as  first  violinist 
of  a  troop  of  musicians,  founded  by  the  king, 
called  "Zes  petits  violons."  The  name  had  been 
given  in  order  to  distinguish  it  from  "Za  grande 
bande/'  commonly  called  '^les  vingt-quatre 
violons."  The  prefix  *' petit"  was  very  dis- 
tasteful to  Lully. 

Margot  received  the  news  of  his  promotion 
with  intense  joy.  He  asked  her  when  the  wed- 
ding should  take  place. 

"I  will  not  alter  my  determination.  I  will 
be  yours  when  the  king  shall  have  danced  to 
the  music  of  your  violin  ! ' ' 

"He  shall  do  so,"  was  the  answer.  "Before 
three  months  have  passed  by,  you  will  be  Mar- 
got Lully!" 

-284  


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


At  the  end  of  about  nine  weeks,  all  Paris 
was  talking  of  an  enchanting  festival,  or 
*' divertissement/'  to  be  given — called  a  *^ bal- 
let.'' The  music  was  composed  by  the  little 
violinist  Lully ;  and  it  was  so  charming  that  the 
king  had  declared  that  he  himself  would  dance 
in  it.  And  he  did  so.  At  unheard-of  expense, 
and  with  most  unusual  splendour,  the  ^'Al- 
cidione"  was  brought  out  at  Versailles.  The 
composer  himself  led  his  musicians,  and  the 
most  distinguished  ladies  and  gentlemen  of  the 
court  danced  in  it. 

Amidst  the  spectators,  Margot  Lambert,  with 
a  countenance  beaming  with  happiness,  and 
attired  in  her  finest  costume,  sat  by  her  father's 
side. 

Exactly  one  week  after  this  evening,  the 
charming  Margot  and  little  Jean  Baptiste  were 
man  and  wife. 

When  the  bridegroom  presented  his  blushing 
young  wife  to  his  protector  the  king,  he  gave 
him  the  title  of  Chapel-Master  of  the  ^'petits 
violons/'  and  said  to  Margot,  jestingly: 
**  Henceforward  the  wife  will  play  the  violin, 
and  the  husband  must  dance.  You  need  only 
complain  to  me  should  the  dancer  ever  refuse 
you  obedience.     Do  not  forget!" 

Lully  was  now  happy;   he  had  not  only  a 

—285 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


charming  wife,  but  he  had  also  excellent  musi- 
cians who  were  obliged  to  obey  him.  His 
zealous  aim  was  directed  to  the  advancement  of 
his  band.  He  composed  for  it  brilliant  sympho- 
nies, trios,  and  marches,  and  forced  his  musi- 
cians to  play  them  accurately.  His  artists 
trembled  before  him;  if  they  took  but  a  single 
false  note,  he  would  fall  into  ungovernable  fits 
of  passion.  It  often  happened  that  he  would 
fly  at  the  culprit,  and  would  tear  his  instru- 
ment from  his  hands  and  beat  him  with  it  until 
it  was  literally  broken  into  a  thousand  pieces. 
It  is  true  that  on  the  following  day  he  would 
send  the  ill-treated  man  a  new  instrument, 
worth  far  more  than  the  shattered  one,  and 
would  invite  him  to  dine  with  him  at  his  own 
house,  where  a  smile  and  a  friendly  word  from 
the  beautiful  Margot  would  never  fail  to  soothe 
the  sufferer's  wounded  feelings. 

Thanks  to  his  assiduity  and  severity,  the 
young  chapel-master  soon  succeeded,  through 
the  superiority  of  his  band  over  that  of  the 
*'vingt-quatre  violons,"  in  gaining  the  favour 
of  the  young  music-loving  king;  indeed,  he  won 
it  so  completely  that  Louis  the  Fourteenth 
named  him  his  secretary — an  honour  that  made 
the  vain  Jean  Baptiste  far  happier  than  the 
richest  present  would  have  done.     He  now  be- 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


came  so  haughty  and  so  over  Dear ing  tnat  once, 
when  the  proud  Marquis  de  Louvois  told  him, 
contemptuously,  that  he  only  deserved  the  title 
of  court-fool,  he  boldly  answered  him:  *'How 
gladly  would  you  be  one  yourself,  did  you  but 
possess  the  talent!  There  is  but  a  slight  dif- 
ference between  you  and  myself ,  You  are 
obliged  to  dance  when  the  king  commands  (or 
can  I  believe  that  you  would  dare  refuse  ? ) ,  and 
the  king  dances  when  I  play  for  him.  I  would 
rather  be  the  player  than  a  dancer  like  you!" 

Louis  laughed  when  this  speech  of  his  fa- 
vourite was  repeated  to  him.  How  could  he 
reprove  little  Jean  Baptiste,  who  composed  such 
beautiful  ballets  for  him  ? 

In  the  tenth  year  of  his  marriage,  LuUy  had 
already  composed  six  '^ Ballets  des  Arts/'  as 
well  as  the  music  to  Moliere's  ^'La  Princesse 
d'Elide/'  'TAmour  Medecin/'  and  ''L'Eg- 
logue  de  Versailles/'  by  Quinault.  At  this 
time  Parisian  society  laughingly  whispered  that 
the  beautiful  Margot  Lully  had  had  an  audi- 
ence with  the  king,  in  order  to  complain  of  her 
husband's  dissipated  life.  Every  one  knew 
that  little  Jean  Baptiste  was  a  dissolute  fellow; 
indeed,  one  could  see  the  life  he  led  merely  by 
looking  at  him.  He  had  never  been  handsome, 
but  now  he  was  positively   ugly.     His  small, 

-287  = 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES-. 


pale  face,  peering  through  an  immense  wig, 
was  not  improved  by  eyes  surrounded  by  red 
circles,  and  by  a  red-tipped  nose.  His  figure, 
when  not  holding  his  baton  in  his  hand,  was 
that  of  an  old  man.  But  sparks  of  wit  and 
malice  flashed  often  from  his  dark  little  eyes, 
and  when  he  stood  amidst  his  musicians  every 
muscle  of  his  body  quivered  with  excitement. 
His  wig  was  always  crooked  and  dishevelled, 
his  jabot  crumpled,  and  the  lace  trimmings  of 
his  cuffs  often  flew  about  him  in  rags,  whilst  he 
was  leading.  The  ^^petits  violons/'  as  well  as 
the  **vingt-quatre,"  had  long  since  been  dis- 
solved. He  was  the  king  of  the  Parisian  stage, 
and  ruled  every  band  of  musicians  in  the  capi- 
tal. No  one  in  Paris  dared  play  on  flute  or 
violin  without  having  secured  Lully  's  protection. 
He  who  pleased  little  Jean  Baptiste  pleased  the 
Parisians. 

The  bitter  complaints  and  tears  of  his  poor, 
neglected  wife — the  once  charming  Margot — at 
length  induced  the  king  to  treat  his  chapel- 
master  somewhat  coldly. 

This  slight  disgrace  was  deeply  felt  by  Lully, 
who  used  every  endeavour  to  regain  his  lofty 
patron's  good  graces,  but  in  vain.  At  last  he 
tried  his  talent  as  ''buffoon."  He  appeared 
one     evening     in     Moliere's     comedy     of     the 


LULLY 


MUSICAL  8KETCH1S8 


'^Malade  Imaginaire/'  in  the  role  of  Pour- 
ceaugnac.  In  this  character  he  played  the 
wildest  antics,  and,  whilst  escaping  from  the 
apothecaries  and  their  instruments,  he  leaped 
into  the  orchestra  upon  the  sounding-board  of 
the  piano,  which  broke,  with  a  hollow  sound, 
into  a  thousand  pieces.  The  king  burst  into  fits 
of  laughter,  and  the  merry-maker  resumed  his 
old  place  in  his  favour:  poor  Margot's  tears 
were  forgotten. 

In  the  year  1672,  Lully  opened  a  theatre,  in 
which  he  was  not  only  director,  stage-manager, 
maitre  de  ballet,  leader,  and  machinist,  but  also 
composer  of  all  the  music.  His  first  represen- 
tation was  the  opera  called:  *'Les  Fetes  de 
r Amour  et  de  Bacchus/'  in  which,  with  Quin- 
ault's  assistance,  he  had  happily  combined 
favourite  scenes  from  old  pieces  with  several 
new  ones.  The  mise  en  scene  was  gorgeous,  and 
the  court  was  enchanted.  The  following  year 
he  produced  ^'Cadmus,"  with  a  prologue,  the 
poetry  by  Quinault.  This  was  the  first  *'tra- 
gedie  lyrique^'  ever  performed  upon  the 
French  stage.  In  this  work  the  composer's 
genius  suddenly  rose  to  a  great  height.  After 
Moliere's  death,  Lully  obtained  the  theatre  of 
the  Palais  Royal,  accompanied  by  another  fa- 
vour from  the  king — an  ordinance   forbidding 

-289 

19 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


the  other  theatres  in  Paris  from  using  more 
than  two  voices  and  six  violins.  None  had  so 
firm  a  foothold  ss  the  ''buffoon." 

Lully's  glory  was  now  at  its  zenith.  His  first 
opera  in  this  new  theatre  was  ^^Alceste,"  the 
text  by  Quinault;  then  followed  *^Thesee/' 
''Le  Carnaval,"  ''Atys,"  ''Ms,''  with  its  fa- 
mous scene  in  the  third  act,  in  which  a  violent 
storm  roared  in  masterly  sound-painting.*  The 
greatest  poets  of  France  now  begged  for  his 
notice.  Corneille  wrote  the  libretto  of  Ps^/c/ie'' 
for  him,  Fontenelle,  that  of  ''BellerophonJ' 
Some  of  Lully's  compositions  for  the  Church 
were  grand — among  others,  a  ''Te  Deum/'  an 
''Exaudiat,"  the  psalm  '' Plaudit e  gentes/'  the 
''Veni  Creator/'  a  ''Jubilate,"  a  "Miserere," 
?i"De  profundis,"  and  a  "Libera."  His  church 
music  was  quite  as  successful  and  as  effective 
as  that  which  he  wrote  for  the  theatre.  Ma- 
dame de  Sevigne,  in  one  of  her  letters,  when 
speaking  of  the  funeral  ceremonies  of  the 
Chancelier  Seguier,  says:  *'The  music  cannot 
be  described;  Lully  surpassed  himself  in  his 
beautiful  'Miserere.'     At  the  'Libera'  all  eyes 

*  Lully  was  forty  years  old  when  he  commenced  to 
write  these  operas  (nineteen  in  number),  whose  success 
lasted  nearly  a  century,  and  which  even  to-day  merit  in 
certain  points  the  esteem  of  the  connoisseur. 

==290  


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


were  filled  with  tears:     I  do  not  think  that  the 
music  of  heaven  can  be  more  divine." 


On  the  last  of  October,  1680,  Lully's  new 
opera  of  **Armide''  (with  Quinault's  text)  was 
brought  out.  The  sickly  poet  had  had  much 
trouble  in  pleasing  the  eccentric  composer;  for 
he  had  been  obliged  to  re-write  the  fifth  act  of 
^'Armide^'  five  times  before  he  made  it  accept- 
able to  him.  But  he  patiently  endured  every 
thing;  for  was  he  not  permitted  to  sit  whole 
evenings  with  Margot  Lully,  and  to  speak  of 
her  to  love  whom  had  been  the  most  beautiful 
dream  of  his  youthful  heart — of  Louison  de  la 
Valliere?  Margot 's  pale  cheek  would  flush 
once  more  as  she  lost  herself  in  these  old 
memories.  All  sorrow  would  forsake  her  heart 
whilst  describing  to  her  invalid  friend  the 
lovely  picture  of  Louison 's  childhood  and  her 
own.  She  told  ever  and  again  the  story  of 
that  fatal  evening  in  the  oratory  of  the  Mar- 
quise de  Saint-Remi.  Then  it  was  that  the 
king's  foot  had  heedlessly  crushed  the  blooming 
rose  that  had  fallen  from  Louison 's  hair;  where 
was  she  now — she,  who  had  been  the  fairest  of 
all  roses? 

The  court,  and  all  in  Paris  that  could  boast 
of  rank,  wealth,  and  beauty,  had  assembled  to 

-201 


MZrSICAL  SKETCHES 


see  the  first  representation  of  Lully's  '^Ar- 
mide,''  The  famous  singer  Marthe  le  Rochvis 
took  the  principal  role.  The  audience  was  en- 
raptured. The  whole  house  resembled  a  sea  of 
light  and  splendour;  intoxicating  tones  and 
cries  of  delight  arose  on  all  sides.  Lully's  soul 
swelled  proudly.  The  king  called  him  to  his 
box  and  placed  a  costly  ring  upon  his  finger; 
the  queen  took  her  bouquet  from  her  breast 
and,  smiling,  gave  it  to  him.  Once  more  behind 
the  scenes,  he  cast  both  ring  and  flowers  into  the 
lap  of  the  most  charming  singer  of  the  time, 
the  siren-like  Marthe  le  Rochvis,  who  in  return 
gave  him  a  coquettish  tap  on  the  cheek  with  her 
fan. 

At  this  same  hour,  two  women  were  taking 
leave  of  each  other  in  the  Convent  of  the  Car- 
melites. One,  in  her  long,  flowing  nun's  attire, 
was  called  in  the  convent  ''Soeur  Louise  de  la 
Misericorde. "  She  extended  her  wondrously 
beautiful  hand  through  the  grated  window  to 
the  weeping  woman  whose  brow  was  pressed 
against  its  iron  bars.  *'Be  consoled,  Margot; 
do  not  be  thus  prostrated,"  she  said,  gently; 
**  since  you  can  no  longer  love  Mm,  love  your 
children.  You  have  a  right  to  do  so.  Do  not 
forget  that  in  having  this  right  you  are  a 
thousand    times    happier    than  I.     7,  also  for- 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


saken,  was  forced  to  weep  more  at  the  birth  of 
my  children  than  I  afterwards  did  at  their 
death.  Margot  Lully  in  all  her  grief  is  happy 
in  comparison  with  Louison  de  la  Valliere." 

Margot  Lully  kissed  her  friend's  hand  with 
passionate  tenderness.  "Pray  for  me,  thou 
holy  one ! ' '  she  said,  and  left  her. 

Just  two-and-twenty  years  before,  this  sor- 
row-stricken woman  in  her  rich  attire,  and  this 
nun,  with  her  glance  like  a  bride  of  heaven,  sat, 
two  merry,  lively  children,  in  the  little  oratory 
of  the  Marquise  de  Saint-Remi,  laughing  and 
jesting.  Neither  of  them  now  thought  of  that 
evening.  What  had  become  of  the  brilliant 
assembly  that  then  filled  the  sumptuous  apart- 
ments of  the  palace?  Most  of  them  lay  in  the 
deep  sleep  of  death.  Among  them  rested  the 
marquise  herself,  and  Louison 's  affectionate 
step-father,  as  well  as  Michel  Lambert.  The 
famous  poet  Quinault  had  become  a  feeble, 
gloomy  old  man;  Lully  alone  seemed  happy. 
And  Margot  and  Louison?  One  was  the  for- 
saken wife  of  a  faithless  husband;  the  other, 
the  forsaken  mistress  of  a  powerful  monarch — 
a  crushed  rose. 


After  an    illness  of    Louis    the    Fourteenth, 
Lully  composed  a.  *^Te  Deum''  in  honour  of  his 


=293= 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


convalescence.  It  was  brought  out  on  tlie  8th 
of  January,  1687.  During  its  performance 
Lully  became  so  excited,  whilst  leading,  that 
he  struck  his  foot  violently  with  his  baton  and 
was  carried  home  senseless.  This  blow  caused 
an  abscess,  from  which  he  was  destined  not  to 
recover.  His  sufferings  were  alleviated  by  one 
who  from  that  hour  took  her  place  by  his 
couch.  She  consoled,  encouraged,  and  tended 
upon  the  sick  man  unwearyingly  by  night  and 
day.  Lully  soon  thought  that  he  had  never 
seen  a  more  beautiful  face.  And  Margot  Lully — 
for  she  was  the  tender  nurse — believed  once 
more  that  happiness  might  still  be  possible 
upon  this  dreary  earth.  Her  eyes,  whose  bright- 
ness had  been  dimmed  by  many  tears,  sparkled 
anew,  and  her  smile  regained  its  old  charm. 
Under  her  careful  tendance  Lully  became  so 
strengthened  that  he  could  occasionally  sit  up  in 
bed  and  work.  Thus  the  first  act  of  an  opera, 
'^Achille  et  Folixene/'  was  written.  The  sick 
man's  stern  confessor  found  him  one  day 
employed  thus  profanely,  and  appealed  so 
strongly  to  his  conscience,  that  he  at  last  pushed 
the  scribbled  papers  towards  the  zealous  priest, 
saying:  ''There,  take  the  trash  and  burn  it, 
but  pray  let  me  rest!"  The  manuscript  of 
*'Achille  et  Polixene'^  was  really  committed  to 

-294 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


the  flames.  Afterwards,  when  his  wife  gently 
reproached  him  for  destroying  his  work,  he 
whispered  in  her  ear,  with  his  old,  sly  smile: 
*'Do  not  fret,  Margot.  I  have  a  copy  of  it  care- 
fully put  away."* 

On  the  22d  of  March,  1687,  in  the  fifty- 
fourth  year  of  his  age,  Jean  Baptiste  Lully 
breathed  his  last  in  Margot 's  arms,  and  his  rest- 
less soul  sought  a  new  post  as  chapel-master  in 
heaven. 

*  A  mistake:  it  was  the  *^Armide/*  during  a  previous 
illness. 


:295: 


A  Forgotten  One 

**The   wreath  was  twined   of  violets  blue, 
That  graced  sweet  Jenny's  brow  so  true.'* 

THE  name  of  Ludwig  Berger  is  an  almost 
forgotten  one;  yet  it  belonged  to  a  good 
man,  now  no  more;  a  pure,  noble,  amiable 
being,  of  a  truly  musical  nature!  The  remem- 
brance that  he  has  left  behind  him  in  the 
hearts  of  all  who  were  so  fortunate  as  to  have 
known  him,  is  not  more  precious  than  the 
radiant  traces  of  his  artistic  existence,  which 
we  admire  and  follow  in  his  works  and  pupils. 
His  modest  grave,  over  whose  turf  only  four- 
teen years  have  passed  with  light  footsteps,  is 
as  forgotten  as  though  its  weary  covering  had 
rested  upon  it  for  half  a  century.  Many  of  his 
favourite  scholars,  and,  indeed,  the  youngest 
and  most  brilliant  one,  have  already  followed 
their  honoured  master  upon  that  path  **  whence 
7ione  have  e'er  returned." 

Berger 's  works  are,  if  you  can  believe  it, 
almost  buried  with  him.  A  little  bouquet  of  his 
truly  poetical  song-flowers  bloom  occasionally 
in  the  room  of  a  true  lover  of  by-gone  music. 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


There  may  be  met  one  of  the  four  wondrously 
beautiful  sonatas  for  piano,  that  once  en- 
chanted the  fashionable  world  of  Berlin  and 
St.  Petersburg.  The  souvenir  of  Ludwig  Ber- 
ger  brings  with  it  sadness,  for  we  think  of  him 
wandering  ill  and  solitary.  But  let  us  show 
you  a  little  picture  from  his  life. 

A  pale  young  woman  was  seated  in  a  small 
but  cheerful  room  beside  a  green-curtained 
cradle,  in  which  a  scarcely  three-weeks-old 
child  was  sleeping.  The  delicate  cheek  of  the 
blonde  mother  spoke  touchingly  of  the  beauty 
and  health  whose  flowers  had  once  bloomed 
upon  it,  but  which  now  had  fled,  and  had  taken 
refuge  in  her  large  blue  eyes.  Every  thing  lay 
in  them — light,  youth,  strength,  and  happi- 
ness— an  oasis  upon  fields  of  snow.  The  young 
mother's  little  foot  touched  the  rocker  of  the 
cradle,  and  she  sang,  almost  breathed,  a  cradle- 
song  with  popular  words,  and  with  a  charming, 
simple  melody: 

**When  my  baby  I  rock  to  sleep,  love, 
I  sing  him  the  song  of  the  turtle-dove.'* 

Snow-flakes  were  falling  without,  and  frost- 
pictures  were  curiously  peeping  through  the 
small  panes  of  glass;  for  it  was  winter— an  icy 
winter  in  St.  Petersburg.    The  sleighs  drove  by, 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


wildly  chasing  each  other;  criers  and  vendors 
of  different  wares,  well  enveloped  in  furs, 
bustled  about;  beggar-women  sang;  but — 
although  these  sounds  penetrated  faintly  into 
the  room — the  young  woman  heeded  them  not. 

' '  Ludwig  will  soon  come ! ' '  she  whispered  to 
herself,  smiling  dreamily.  After  giving  a  long 
motherly  look  into  the  cradle,  she  arose,  moved 
slowly  towards  the  piano  in  the  corner  of  the 
room,  which  was  covered  with  as  much  care  as 
was  the  child's  little  bed,  and  dusted  its  cover. 
Then  she  went  to  the  writing-desk,  and  endeav- 
oured to  bring  into  their  proper  position  the 
portraits  of  Mozart  and  Clementi  that  hung 
over  it,  and  who  were  looking  at  each  other 
obliquely.  How  German  was  the  little  room! 
It  had  white  cloud-like  curtains,  pipes  hung  in 
the  corner,  the  walls  were  decked  with  views  of 
Berlin  and  its  environs,  a  dried  bouquet  of 
violets  in  a  frame,  a  row  of  silhouettes,  a  Ger- 
man sheet-almanac,  and  a  small  collection  of 
German  musicians.  A  dressing-gown  was 
thrown  over  the  arm  of  the  writing-chair.  Of 
all  the  nations  of  Europe,  none  carry  their 
habits  and  manner  of  living  about  with  them 
so  minutely  as  do  the  Germans.  They  incom- 
mode no  one,  however,  and  are  completely  satis- 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


fied  if  allowed  to  be  happy  in  their  own  way 
within  their  own  four  walls. 

The  pictures  were  straightened,  the  papers 
on  the  writing-desk  were  arranged  by  her  care- 
ful hand,  and  then  the  busy  one  discovered  a 
sheet  of  music.  It  was  dedicated :  "To  Jenny. ' ' 
The  first  stanza  of  the  song  seemed  com- 
pleted ;  its  words  were : 

''The  wreath  was  twined  of  violets  blue, 
That  graced  sweet  Jenny's  brow  so  true, 
When  in  the  dance  I  with  fond  alarms 
First  pressed  her  in  my  timid  arms.'' 

Tears  started  to  the  pale  young  woman's 
eyes.  "To  meF  Ah,  Heaven,  he  has  thought  of 
my  birthday,  which,  by  our  dear  German 
almanac,  we  celebrate  to-morrow.  How  good 
he  is!"  she  said,  with  profound  melancholy. 

"Do  you  really  think  so?"  inquired  a  man's 
gentle  voice,  and  Ludwig  Berger  came  in  softly, 
and  wound  his  arm  around  his  wife's  waist. 
"Since  you  know  it,"  he  continued,  cheerfully, 
"I  will  not  attempt  to  deny  it.  You  so  dearly 
love  the  little  blue  flowers  of  our  home  that  I 
wished  to  write  and  set  to  music  a  Violet-Song 
for  you.  But,  Jenny,  do  not  weep  so  bitterly," 
he  said,  as  he  seated  himself,  and  drew  his 
agitated  wife  upon  his  knee;   "you  shall  soon 


i299z 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


pluck  your  favourites  again  in  your  own  quiet 
little  garden  near  the  gates  of  the  city;  I  have 
promised  it  to  you,  and  I  will  keep  my  word. 
We  have  now  been  nearly  four  years  in  the 
great  city  of  the  Czar.  Your  poor  Ludwig  will 
soon  be  a  rich  man — ^thanks  to  his  wealthy 
pupils ;  then  we  will  gayly  turn  our  backs  upon 
the  pomp  of  St.  Petersburg,  and  journey  to- 
wards our  beloved  Berlin." 

His  blonde  wife  looked  up,  and  smiled.  The 
expression  of  intense  home-sickness  which  made 
her  face  so  strangely  touching  to  an  attentive 
observer  softened,  and  melted  into  one  of  mel- 
ancholy joy. 

' '  Oh,  how  doubly  rich  we  shall  return  ! ' '  said 
she,  and  pointed  with  emotion  to  the  cradle. 
Berger  responded  to  her  glance  with  a  father's 
proud  smile,  and  asked,  jestingly,  if  the  rogue 
had  been  rocked  to  sleep  with  papa's  cradle- 
song. 

She  nodded  assent,  and  then  he  caressingly 
pressed  his  wife  to  his  heart.  *'How  can  you 
be  ready  with  my  birthday-song?"  the  young 
wife  inquired;  *'you  have  scarcely  finished  the 
first  verse,  and  you  must  go  this  evening  to 
Prince  Tz ." 

''The  second  one  is  already  written  in  my 
head,"    he    replied,  ''and    the    baby-boy    is   to 

-BOO 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


bring  you  a  bouquet  of  violets  in  the  third  one ; 
now  you  know  all!'* 

''Violets  in  winter,"  she  cried,  much  excited 
and  astonished,  "what  a  fabulous  idea!" 

''In  the  hot-houses  of  St.  Petersburg  all 
flower  legends  become  realities,"  he  replied; 
**see  if  I  do  not  bring  you  violets  to-morrow." 

It  was  now  quite  dark;  the  nurse  brought  in 
the  lamp,  the  mother  and  child  went  to  rest  in 
the  adjoining  room. 

"You  have  more  fever  to-day  than  yester- 
day," said,  anxiously,  the  old  experienced  Ger- 
man woman.  "I  do  not  comprehend  why  the 
doctor  takes  so  little  notice  of  it ! " 

"Silence,  silence,"  whispered  the  young 
mother,  "do  not  let  my  husband  hear  you;  in 
a  few  hours  he  is  to  play  at  the  house  of  Prince 

Tz ;  no    sad    thoughts    must    torment    him 

there !     To-morrow  all  will  be  well ! '  * 

She  affectionately  bade  her  husband  good- 
night. He  meanwhile  prepared  for  his  visit  to 
the  house  of  the  Prince,  who  was  to  give  a 
soiree  to  celebrate  the  birthday  of  his  only 
daughter,  and  had  begged  Berger  to  perform 
before  a  small  and  select  company. 

"I  wish  that  I  could  remain  home,"  mur- 
mured Berger,  with  melancholy;  "the  violet- 
song  should  be  finished."    He  seated  himself  at 

=^301  === 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


the  writing-desk,  and  hastily  wrote  a  few  lines. 
*'It  does  not  do,"  he  sighed,  ''the  birthday- 
song  will  not  be  joyful.  I  shall  leave  it  until 
to-morrow;  then  I  shall  have  the  bouquet 
before  me!" 

Before  leaving,  he  entered  the  adjoining 
room,  and  gave  a  long,  tender  look  at  his 
precious  treasures,  his  wife  and  child. 

The  young  woman  lay,  with  glowing  cheeks, 
in  a  restless  slumber.  "Give  me  the  violets, 
Ludwig,  quickly,  quickly,"  she  passionately 
cried,  and  extended  her  arms;  "you  come  too 
late! — You  tarry  too  long!  Oh,  my  poor,  poor 
friend!" 

"She  often  dreams,"  said  the  old  nurse,  con- 
solingly, to  the  anxious  husband. 


The  parlours  of  the  splendour-loving  Prince 
Tz — ■ —  were  brilliantly  illuminated,  and  the 
fabulous  beauty  of  their  decorations  recalled  to 
mind  the  wondrous  age  of  fairy-lore.  The  pal- 
aces of  the  Russian  nobles  alone  realize  the 
magic  dreams  of  golden  rooms,  and  spring-like 
gardens  in  frozen  winter;  description  can  give 
no  idea  of  the  overwhelming  luxury  and  splen- 
dour of  their  residences. 

This  evening  but  three  parlours  were  thrown 

■302  = 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


open;  in  the  centre  one  was  placed  the  magnifi- 
cent piano.  The  entrance-chamber  served  as 
the  reception-room,  while  the  last  one  was 
changed  into  a  laughing  garden  with  cascades 
of  perfumed  water.  The  guests,  about  thirty 
in  number,  consisted  of  the  elite  of  the  musical 
world,  and  a  few  young  girls,  friends  of  the 
beautiful  daughter  of  the  house — ^most  of  them 
pupils  of  Berger.  Among  the  artists  the  ex- 
pressive head  of  Clementi  and  the  pleasant  face 
of  John  Field  were  conspicuous;  both  were  liv- 
ing in  St.  Petersburg,  and  were  intimate  friends 
of  the  talented  German. 

It  was  Clementi  who  had  induced  Berger  to 
visit  St.  Petersburg.  Just  before  going  to 
Russia,  he  had  heard  young  Berger  play,  and 
was  so  charmed  with  the  artist's  dreamy 
geniality,  that  he  immediately  asked  him  to 
leave  Berlin  and  become  his  travelling  com- 
panion. The  proposition  was  joyfully  and 
thankfully  accepted.  Shortly  afterwards  these 
two  remarkable  musicians  journeyed  forth  into 
the  world,  teaching  others  and  improving  them- 
selves! Having  arrived  at  St.  Petersburg, 
Clementi  succeeded  in  procuring  so  many 
pupils  for  the  young  German,  that  his  existence 
was  fully  assured  in  this  strange  land.  When 
Clementi    departed,    he    had    the    pleasure    of 

-303  a 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


knowing  that  Berger  had  sent  to  Berlin  for  his 
betrothed,  his  dear,  gentle  Jenny,  and  that  the 
home  they  had  longed  for  so  ardently  had  been 
found  on  the  shores  of  the  Neva.  The  frequent 
illness  of  his  delicate  wife,  who  .suffered  from 
homesickness,  often  threw  gloomy  shadows 
upon  'Berger 's  young  married  life ;  and  when 
Clementi,  after  a  five  years'  absence,  returned 
to  St.  Petersburg,  he  found  his  pupil  and  fa- 
vourite— it  is  true  in  great  joy  at  the  birth  of 
his  son — but  not  so  happy  and  free  from  care 
as  he  had  expected.  The  nervous  irritability  of 
this  remarkably  rich  nature  had  increased  to  an 
alarming  degree;  and  his  inclination  to  a  cer- 
tain fanciful  melancholy  appeared  to  have 
developed  itself  in  an  extraordinary  manner. 
Berger  was  one  of  those  beings  that  know  only 
how  to  extract  poison  from  flowers ;  he  could 
conceive  of  no  joy  that  was  unalloyed  by  sor- 
row; a  cloudless  sky  but  reminded  him  of  an 
approaching  storm. 

This  evening,  in  the  prince's  parlour,  Cle- 
menti remarked  an  unusual  melancholy  on  his 
favourite's  countenance — a  melancholy  that  had 
not  been  dissipated  even  by  the  distinguished 
reception  which  had  been  given  him. 

*' Would  that  the  evening  hours  would  pass 
with    redoubled    quickness,"    he    said,     in     an 

304  = 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


undertone,  to  Clementi  and  Field;  ''my  wife 
is  ill,  and  a  bunch  of  violets,  that  I  hoped  to 
present  her  with  to-morrow — which  is  her 
birthday — has  been  torn  from  the  poor  musi- 
cian by  some  rich  Boyar.  He  offered  a  hundred 
roubles  for  the  bouquet — and  the  florist  has 
given  it  to  him.  I  have  just  come  from  him ;  he 
wished  to  give  me  other  flowers!  I  have  sent 
to  all  the  other  green-houses,  but  there  are  no 
violets  to  be  had."  Clementi  endeavoured  to 
console  his  excited  friend,  saying  that  perhaps 
other  flowers  would  give  her  as  much  pleasure. 
Berger  shook  his  head  impatiently,  and  an- 
swered: ''You  do  not  know  my  poor  Jenny; 
they  are  her  favourite  flowers;  to  them  are 
attached  all  the  sweet  remembrances  of  our 
love ;  they  are  allied  to  her  whole  being,  for  she 
herself  is  of  a  violet-like  nature!  And,"  he 
continued,  in  a  low  voice,  to  himself,  "of  what 
use  is  my  song  without  its  perfumed  accom- 
paniment ? '  * 

Kathinka,  Princess  Tz ,  now  approached 

the  artists;  in  the  purest  German  she  begged 
Berger  to  perform  his  Es-dur-Sonata.  He 
gazed  almost  absently  upon  her.  She  was  in- 
deed very  lovely  as  she  thus  stood,  clad  in  a 
heavy  white  satin  dress,  with  costly  rows  of 
pearls  in  her  black  hair  and  around  her  well- 

—305 

20 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


formed  neck  and  arms.  Fire  flashed  from  the 
black  eyes,  a  warm  heart  showed  itself  in  the 
beautiful  young  countenance,  and  a  kind, 
almost  tender  smile  played  about  the  full  lips, 
as  she  spoke  to  her  honoured  teacher. 

"Princess  Kathinka  can  command,"  Berger 
answered,  after  a  pause,  "but  she  will  have 
compassion  upon  her  teacher;  he  cannot  give 
his  entire  thoughts  to  a  long  piece  of  music  this 
evening,  even  though  it  be  his  own  composition. 
His  wife  is  ill,  and  his  heart  is  very  heavy;  his 
high-born  pupil  must  allow  him  to  extem- 
porize !  Take  him  as  he  is"!  It  is  true  that  the 
effort  will  be  quite  unworthy  the  day  that  we 
are  here  to  celebrate,  but  the  annoyance  will 
soon  be  forgotten;  no  shadow  can  long  remain 
near  you;  you  belong  to  the  happy  ones  of  this 
earth,  to  whom  God  has  given  eternal  sun- 
shine!" 

An  expression  of  the  bitterest  sorrow  passed 
over  the  maiden's  face;  she  turned  from  her 
teacher  and  grew  very  pale.  "Do  not  incon- 
venience yourself  on  my  account,"  she  said,  in 
a  low  voice,  and  left  him. 

Ludwig  Berger  went  to  the  piano  and  extem- 
porized. 

It  is  a  peculiar  gift — and  but  rarely 
granted — this   pouring   out   of   one's   individu- 


:306: 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


ality  into  tones,  this  unveiling  of  one's  most 
secret  thoughts  and  feelings.  Artists  seldom 
give  themselves  in  their  so-called  fantasias; 
most  of  them  offer  a  piquant  mixture  of  beau- 
tiful melodies,  brilliant  fiorituras,  pretty  trills, 
reminiscences  skilfully  woven  together,  et  voild 
tout.  A  few  unassuming  men,  however,  whose 
hearts  as  well  as  fingers  have  been  touched  by 
divine  Music,  often  surprise  us  strangely  with 
their  heart-moving  fantasias;  the  story  of  a 
human  soul  lies  hidden  within  them.  Whoever 
has  heard  Mendelssohn  extemporize  has  heard 
Berger's  true  pupil,  and  has  heard  at  the  same 
time  the  ''artist  by  the  grace  of  God"  and  the 
*'man"  full  of  mind  and  soul. 

Ludwig  Berger  extemporized.  A  softly 
moving  lake  unfolded  itself,  its  waves  undu- 
lated beneath  the  shimmering  moonlight.  The 
reeds  waved  and  crackled  mysteriously.  Songs 
and  sweet  sounds  streamed  from  the  calyces  of 
languishing  water-flowers,  whilst  amidst  them 
melodies  trembled,  songs  from  his  happy,  by- 
gone childhood,  cradle-songs  that  his  dead 
mother  used  to  sing,  maiden  songs  that  had 
flowed  from  the  lips  of  his  beloved.  All  hov- 
ered spirit-like  above  the  lake.  The  waves 
rustled  more  loudly,  as  though  they  would 
drown  the  sweet  memories;  then  the  moonlight 

-307 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


became  dimmed,  the  flowers  shudderingly 
closed  their  calyces,  and  deep,  touching  com- 
plaints resounded  and  penetrated  with  their 
agitating  power  into  the  souls  of  his  auditors. 
They  were  forcibly  drawn  into  this  singing, 
sounding  sorrow,  and  fought  and  suffered  with 
it.  At  last,  the  lake  flowed,  like  a  vaporous 
dream,  gradually  away;  the  breath  of  the 
flowers,  the  whispering  of  the  reeds,  the  moon- 
beams, the  sighs  and  tears,  mingled  together. 
All  became  softer  and  softer,  and  a  simple, 
touching  melody  struck,  as  though  from  afar, 
the  listener's  ear,  an  infinitely  lovely  ballad:  it 
was  the  first  stanza  of  the  birthday-song: 

**The  wreath   was   twined  of  violets  blue, 
That  graced  sweet  Jenny's  brow  so  true. 
When  in  the  dance  I  with  fond  alarms 
First  pressed  her  in  my  timid   arms.'* 

When    Berger    arose,    Kathinka  Tz stood 

near  him. 

Her  eyes  were  filled  with  tears;  she  gazed 
upon  his  serious,  refined  countenance  with  a 
look  of  passionate  admiration.  ''Accept,  my 
dear,  dearest  teacher,"  she  said,  hastily,  in  a 
half-stifled  voice,  "accept  my  heartfelt  thanks! 
And  here — these  flowers  can  tell  you  better 
than    can  I,  how    dear   you    are  to  us!"     She 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


placed  a  large,  beautiful  bunch  of  violets  in  the 
astonished  man's  hands,  who  with  rapture 
recognized  in  them  his  lost  treasure.  "They 
are  flowers  such  as  bloom  in  your  old  home," 
she  continued;  "they  were  given  to  me  by  my 
betrothed!  It  was  a  caprice  of  mine  to  wish 
only  for  violets.  Carry  the  bouquet  to  her — to 
the  wife  whom  you  love." 


Four-and-twenty  hours  after  this  occurrence, 
Ludwig  Berger  sat  by  his  wife's  dead  body.  A 
nervous  fever  had  hurried  her  away.  So  said 
the  physicians.  She  died  gently  on  her  birth- 
day, in  the  arms  of  her  husband,  and  a  few 
hours  afterwards  the  child  followed  its  loving 
mother.  A  wreath  of  violets  lay  upon  the 
stilled  breast  of  the  smiling  dead  one.  The 
birthday-song  was  just  completed.  The  pale 
man,  seated  at  the  feet  of  the  sleeping  one, 
gently  pressed  it  into  her  folded  hands.  It  now 
read : 

"The  wreath   was  twined  of  violets  blue, 
That  graced  sweet  Jenny's  brow  so  true, 
When  in  the  dance  I  with  fond  alarroa 
First  pressed  her  in  my  timid   arms. 
Of  all  the  flowers  in  wood  or  field, 
To  the  violet  blue  the  crown  we  yield. 


:309. 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


' '  The  bouquet  was  all  of  violets  blue, 
That  decked  sweet  Jenny's  breast  so   true, 
When  to  my  little  house  for  life 
I  brought  my  lovely,  fair  young  wife. 
The  violets  blue  will  e'er  have  power 
Me  to  remind  of  that  blissful  hour. 

"And  when  by  love  and  joy  forsaken, 
Jenny  by  death  from  me  was  taken, 
The  wreath  that  by  myself  was  made, 
And  on  her  brow  with  sorrow  laid, 
Of  rosemary  I  made  it  not,  nor  rue. 
But  of  the  violet — the  violet  blue." 

Do  you  not  think  that  the  odour  of  violets 
which  hovers  over  this  most  sorrowful  and  most 
lovely  song  of  Berger's  has  been  wafted  into 
the  soul  of  his  genial  pupil  Felix  Mendelssohn? 

Does  not  the  lovely  song: 

**When  I  espied  the  first  violet," 
give  ** distinct  tidings  of  it?'* 


r310= 


An  Old  Piano 

AT  Weimar,  in  the  grand-ducal  castle,  in  fact 
in  the  Grand  Duke's  own  chamber,  there 
stands  among  costly  decorations  and  rich  furni- 
ture, a  small  square  piano  without  ornament 
of  any  kind.  Its  brown  wood  is  bleached,  like 
some  fabric  long  exposed  to  the  sun;  compared 
with  the  elegant  uprights  and  baby-grands  of 
our  day,  its  severe  simplicity  suggests  such  a 
contrast  as  exists  between  a  portrait  of  some 
ancestor  in  queue  and  periwig  and  the  work 
of  one  of  the  modern  portrait  painters. 

We  had  just  strolled  past  many  of  the  mag- 
nificent art  treasures  in  which  the  Castle  of 
Weimar  is  so  exceedingly  rich,  admiring  paint- 
ings •  and  sketches,  busts  and  statues,  mosaics, 
bewitching  roses  and  waterlilies  painted  on 
marble  by  the  hands  of  noble  ladies;  but  the 
homely  old  piano  brought  us  to  a  halt.  A 
question  was  just  hovering  on  my  lips  when  the 
guide,  continuing  his  set  recital,  anticipated  it 
by  saying:  ''Goethe,  Schiller,  and  Beethoven 
played  on  that.^' 

When  I  heard  this  I  could  not  have  passed 
the    old    piano    for    worlds.     We    stood    still; 

=311 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


slowly  and  carefully,  and  filled  with  reverence 
for  the  precious  relic,  I  raised  the  top.  Over 
the  keys  was  inscribed  the  well-known  old  firm 
name  of  ''Imler"  the  Leipzig  manufacturer. 
The  broader  keys  were  white,  a  fact  which  gave 
it  an  elegance  superior  to  any  possessed  by  the 
old  spinets,  which  have  a  uniform  black  key- 
board. Very  softly  I  struck  a  chord,  and  the 
strings  shrilled  and  hummed  strangely,  as  if  I 
had  awakened  their  tones  from  a  deep  slumber 
and  set  them  whirring  wildly  together,  crying 
and  complaining  in  dismay.  Suddenly,  in  my 
fancy,  the  heavy  window  draperies  were  drawn 
together,  and  it  was  night.  Countless  candles 
were  kindled  by  invisible  hands;  the  doors  were 
thrown  open  to  admit  the  guests  of  the  talented 
Karl  August,  whose  portrait  we  had  just  beheld, 
but  who  now  was  standing  in  the  flesh  before 
us,  in  the  center  of  the  room,  smiling  and  play- 
ing the  host.  At  his  side  was  the  more  serious 
figure  of  his  spouse  Louise,  wearing  a  low  coif 
with  broad  ornaments,  which  concealed  her  hair 
almost  entirely,  and  a  yellow  costume,  closed  at 
the  throat,  exactly  as  in  her  life-size  portrait. 
In  her  eyes  was  the  same  troubled,  dreamy  ex- 
pression, so  that  she  appeared  not  to  see,  or  not 
to  notice,  those  who  were  arriving.  Behind 
Louise  I  saw  the  fresh,  cheerful  face  of  Duchess 

312 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


Amalie,  and,  in  the  background,  the  whole  com- 
pany of  whispering  court  ladies  and  cavaliers. 
Nods  and  smiles  were  everywhere;  glances 
flashed  from  this  side  and  that;  silken  gowns 
rustled;  fair  arms  and  shoulders  glistened  like 
snow;  pearls  and  jewels  gleamed  and  sparkled. 
The  guests  were  indeed  *' bright  stars  glowing 
side  by  side  in  a  splendid  heaven."  King  of 
them  all  was  Goethe.  Schiller,  with  his  pale 
forehead,  followed  Goethe,  supported  on  the 
arm  of  his  frail  companion.  Wieland,  too,  was 
there,  with  his  mysterious  smile,  and  Herder, 
with  his  clear  gaze;  others  were  young  Jean 
Paul,  Mark,  Knebel,  Musaus,  Stein,  and  Kalb 
the  handsome  recluse.  And  then  the  galaxy  of 
fair  women!  I  saw  Charlotte  von  Stein  in 
company  with  Charlotte  von  Kalb,  Caroline  von 
Wolzogen,  Corona  Schroder,  and  many  others. 
The  little  Leipzig  piano,  which  had  been  re- 
ceived and  set  up  on  the  previous  day,  was  now 
to  be  tried  and  admired.  Among  those  expected 
was  a  young  musician  traveling  from  Bonn 
through  Weimar,  on  his  way  to  Vienna,  where 
he  intended  to  continue  his  studies  under  the 
famous  Kapellmeister,  Joseph  Haydn.  He  had 
brought  with  him  to  Weimar  a  strong  letter  of 
introduction  to  the  Grand  Duke,  and  he  was  to 
be  the  one  to  dedicate  the  new  instrument.     He, 

■         -313  


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


however,  had  not  yet  made  his  appearance. 
Goethe  advanced,  struck  a  chord  playfully, 
and  passed  on.  Then  the  ladies  pressed  about 
Schiller,  begging  him  to  try  a  familiar  air.  He 
smiled,  while  a  dull  flush  sufl^used  his  hollow 
cheeks;  but  he  took  his  seat  before  the  piano 
and  tried,  with  all  the  timidity  of  a  child,  to 
pick  out  the  desired  tune  with  his  slender  fore- 
finger. But  no  tune  came.  How  his  charming 
tormentors  swarmed  teasingly  about  him,  until 
at  last  the  beautiful  Corona,  laughing,  gently 
drew  aside  the  poet's  transparent  hands.  Schil- 
ler now  relinquished  his  seat  to  her,  and  she, 
the  darling  of  Weimar,  glancing  mischievously 
over  her  shoulder  the  while,  sang  with  her 
inimitable  grace: 

''Gracious,    youthful    gods    of    springtime, 
Strew  for  me  with  fairy  hands 
Flowrets,  leaflets,  gaily  tossed 
And  woven  into  airy  strands. '* 

Surely  that  was  the  young  stranger  musician 
who  had  entered  during  this  lovely  song  and 
taken  his  stand  just  inside  the  door?  His 
appearance  was  very  unusual.  Goethe  had 
compared  his  head  to  that  of  a  lion.  It  was 
composed  of  stormy  eyes,  a  stern  mouth,  power- 
ful features,  a  cloudy  forehead.  All  eyes  were 
turned  upon  him  as  soon  as  the  Grand  Duke 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


was  seen  to  converse  with  him.  His  whole  ap- 
pearance had  so  remarkable  a  magnetism  that 
for  the  moment  even  Corona,  the  enchantress, 
and  her  sweet  song,  were  quite  forgotten  in  the 
interest  he  aroused. 

A  few  minutes  later  young  Ludwig  von 
Beethoven  had  taken  his  seat  on  the  low  bench 
in  front  of  the  piano,  and  was  improvising. 
The  listeners  gathered  closer  and  closer  about 
him,  as  if  attracted  by  an  invisible  force. 
Charming  groups  were  formed;  the  faces  of 
all,  however  different  their  expressions,  were 
equally  tinged  with  emotion.  What  a  singing, 
rushing,  ringing,  those  hands  called  forth. 
Flowery  springtime  flitted  past;  the  storm  of 
unbridled  passion  swept  by;  then  gleams  of 
moonlight ;  then  the  solemn  echo  of  a  dirge. 


** According  to  Baedeker,"  I  heard  a  grating 
voice  remark  with  dreadful  suddenness,  *' ac- 
cording to  Baedeker,  Weimar,  on  the  Ilm,  is 
one  of  the  most  remarkable  cities  in  the  world. ' ' 
Some  little  professor  or  other  was  on  the  thresh- 
old of  this  consecrated  chamber.  He  never  even 
so  much  as  glanced  at  the  piano,  but  readjusted 
his  spectacles,  buried  his  nose  once  more  in  his 
book,  and  continued  his  reading.     Behind  him, 

-315  


MUSICAL  SKETCSES 


with  outstretched  necks,  his  woman  companions, 
young  and  old,  stared  into  the  room;  but  not 
one  of  them  paid  any  attention  to  the  plain 
brown  piano.  Alas !  Where  now  was  my  Beetho- 
ven? The  sun  was  shining  hotly  through  the 
windows.  The  magical  vision  had  vanished,  the 
magical  tones  were  silent. 

The  old  brown  piano  was  standing,  you  see, 
in  the  magnificent  grand-ducal  chamber,  where 
it  really  might  have  been  ashamed  of  its  ap- 
pearance. No  wonder  that  the  professor  and 
the  professor's  wife  and  daughters  did  not 
think  it  worthy  of  a  glance.  Besides,  the  guide 
never  told  them  that  Goethe,  Schiller,  and 
Beethoven  had  played  upon  its  keys. 


:316- 


A  First  Appearance 

ONE  November  evening,  in  1822,  a  throng 
filled  the  Hall  of  the  Estates  in  Vienna, 
their  eyes  riveted  expectantly  on  a  frail,  blonde 
boy,  who  was  just  then  moving  toward  the 
piano.  Adam  Liszt,  the  friend  of  Haydn  and 
of  Hummel,  and  a  distinguished  performer  on 
both  the  piano  and  the  violin,  was  leading  his 
eleven-year-old  son  for  the  first  time  before  the 
judgment  seat  of  a  public  which  had  known 
Mozart.  The  men  formed  a  minority  of  the 
audience,  but  all  the  leading  musicians  of 
Vienna  were  among  them,  and  near  the  piano 
were  observed  the  interesting  head  of  Salieri 
and  the  serious  Czerny,  the  lad's  instructors. 
The  galaxy  of  women  seemed  all  the  more  re- 
markable by  contrast.  It  was  as  beaming, 
glowing,  smiling  and  fragrant  as  a  flower  bank 
after  a  dewy  night.  Many  deemed  it  a  propi- 
tious omen  that  the  lad  was  to  make  his  debut 
surrounded,  as  it  were,  by  roses. 

In  the  very  remotest  corner  of  the  hall  a  pair 
of  soft  and  beautiful  woman  *s  eyes  '  followed 
every  movement  of  the  slight,  childish  figure, 

—317  


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


and  a  delicate  face  revealed  by  its  affecting 
pallor  the  deepest,  the  most  powerful  emotions. 
The  bosom  of  this  lovely  woman  rose  and  fell 
uneasily,  and  her  small  hands  twitched  as  they 
lay  folded  in  her  lap.  A  black  lace  veil  con- 
cealed her  abundant  golden  hair  and  fell  over 
her  dainty  bust;  a  plain  black  gown  enveloped 
her  slender  form.  Traces  of  sorrow  lay  about 
her  lips,  yet  she  was  making  an  effort  to  smile, 
when  at  last  a  sudden  silence  fell  and  the  first 
tones  of  the  piano  came  to  her  across  the  hall. 
Little  Franz  was  playing  a  concert  piece  of 
Hummel's,  with  wonderful  force  and  fire.  The 
large  audience  did  not  confuse  him;  he  seemed 
as  quiet  and  self-possessed  as  an  experienced 
sailor  guiding  the  helm  of  his  ship  on  the  tossing 
sea.  Why,  then,  did  that  fair  woman  continue 
to  tremble,  to  breathe  so  anxiously?  She  heard 
the  applause  that  was  accorded  him;  she  saw 
the  glow  of  pleasure  that  lighted  his  face  as  he 
took  his  seat  by  his  father 's  side  for  a  short  rest. 
Not  a  single  glance  of  those  large  eyes  with 
their  dark  lashes  was  bestowed  upon  the  pretty 
little  songstress,  dressed  in  a  low-cut  satin  gown 
and  wearing  a  rose  behind  her  left  ear,  who  now 
went  through  the  elaborate  trills  of  an  aria— 
they  remained  fixed  on  the  countenance  of  the 
boy.     How  pale  seemed  that  finely  chiseled  face 

^318,  ,  


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


with  its  aristocratic  mouth !  From  time  to 
time  he  stroked  his  thick  fair  hair  with  quick 
movements  of  the  hand.  The  songstress  finished 
and  retired,  followed  by  the  liveliest  applause. 
As  she  passed  the  lad  she  brushed  her  hand 
caressingly  over  his  hair.  The  woman  in  the 
lace  veil  observed  her  action  with  a  sigh.  Then 
the  boy  again  stepped  to  the  piano,  made  a 
short,  childish  bow,  and  presently  his  slim 
fingers  were  gliding  over  the  keys  in  Hummel's 
B-flat  minor  concerto.  The  audience  was  de- 
lighted. A  faint  glow  of  joy  touched  the 
gentle  face  of  the  woman  in  the  far  corner. 

Once  again  the  signora  fluted,  trilling  boldly 
up  and  down  the  scale  in  the  florid  style,  and 
drew  up  her  broad  shoulders,  and  threw  kind- 
ling glances  in  all  directions,  and  at  the  end 
bowed  again  and  again,  with  charming  coquetry, 
in  response  to  the  loud  **bravas."  And  then 
the  lad  seated  himself  at  the  piano  for  the  last 
time.  He  was  now  to  improvise,  and  the  hall 
became  as  quiet  as  a  church  at  prayer  time; 
one  hardly  dared  to  breathe.  The  lad  chose 
themes  from  Mozart  and  Beethoven,  weaving 
them  into  one  another  and  making  variations 
upon  them  with  the  skill  of  a  magician. 

A  proud  smile  stole  over  Salieri's  anxious 
face ;  but  the  fair  woman  had  allowed  her  head 

=319 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


to  fall  forward  on  her  breast,  while  hot  tears 
were  rolling  down  her  cheeks,  tears  which  she 
meant  none  to  see.  Her  folded  hands  were 
clasped  more  tightly,  and  a  passionate  prayer 
for  the  boy  who  was  playing  there  ascended  to 
heaven  from  her  pure  and  pious  soul.  So  rapt 
was  the  petition  of  the  mother's  heart  that  she 
was  not  disturbed  even  by  the  exultant  cheers 
which  rang  out  without  restraint  as  the  last 
chord  was  struck.  But  the  young  woman 
started  up  in  dismay  at  the  sound  of  one  voice 
that  reached  her.  She  knew  that  voice.  It 
was  saying:  ''Madame,  your  son  has  played 
well;  I  am  satisfied  with  him.  He  will  bring 
you  a  great  deal  of  happiness  and  you  may  well 
feel  proud  of  such  a  boy.  Come,  let  us  go  and 
congratulate  him." 

Franz  Liszt's  mother  rose  and  laid  her  hand 
on  the  arm  of  a  tall,  gloomy  looking  man,  who 
was  standing  in  front  of  her.  His  thick  hair 
was  in  the  most  original  disorder  and  he  was 
carelessly  dressed.  The  audience  was  turning 
and  tossing  about  gaily,  but  all  fell  back,  as  if 
before  the  Emperor  himself,  to  make  way  for 
the  pair  which  now  advanced  to  the  piano. 
They  exchanged  no  words,  but  now  and  then  the 
mother  raised  her  gentle  eyes  and  looked  in 
admiration    and    awe    at    her    companion,    who 

ago  


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


nodded  back  at  her  with  almost  fatherly  kind- 
ness. At  last  the  boy  caught  sight  of  them 
both. 

''Mamma!  Are  you  really  here?  And— 
Beethoven!"  he  cried,  glowing  with  passionate 
delight.  In  another  moment  his  arms  were 
about  his  mother's  neck,  while  Beethoven's 
smiling  approbation  was  the  first  laurel  to  be 
placed  on  the  young  artist's  brow. 

From  that  day  the  career  of  Franz  Liszt  was 
settled,  and  his  mother's  heart,  despite  a 
thousand  apprehensions,  yielded  to  the  inevi- 
table. She  bravely  thrust  aside  the  terrifying 
visions  of  dangers,  sacrifices,  disillusions  which 
disturbed  her  night  and  day.  ''Go  on!"  bade 
the  gentlest  voice  in  the  world.  "May  the 
saints  protect  you  and  lead  you  to  the  true 
peace."  So  the  child  whom  she  loved  so  in- 
tensely entered  the  thorny  road  of  an  artist's 
life,  which  leads  to  heights  of  attainment  where 
men  stand  alone.  Without  a  complaint,  she  up- 
rooted from  her  pious  heart  the  dearest  wish  of 
her  soul.  She  had  longed  to  see  her  son  choose 
the  path  which,  as  she  implicitly  believed,  would 
lead  him  straight  to  heaven ;  she  had  desired  to 
make  him  a  priest.  Thenceforth  she  was  con- 
tent to  be  only  the  mother  of  an  artist. 


:821: 


A  Double  Star  in  the  Artistic 
Firmament 

* '  When  for  the  first  time  I  beheld  thee — ' ' 

TRULY  that  was  a  "musical"  company,  in 
the  fullest  sense  of  the  word,  which  gath- 
ered at  the  house  of  Dr.  Carus,  in  Leipzig,  one 
December  evening  in  1828.  A  larger  number 
than  usual  had  been  invited,  and  the  quartette 
of  young  musicians  and  students,  usually  so 
gay,  appeared  a  little  out  of  humour  in  conse- 
quence. They  liad  retreated  into  a  corner  be- 
side the  piano,  whence  they  were  watching  the 
swelling  tide  of  guests,  with  somewhat  anxious 
looks.  The  two  rooms,  which  were  not  very 
large,  were  already  filled  with  men  and  women. 
All  the  notables  of  the  musical  world  were 
present;  it  looked  as  if  some  one  were  about  to 
undergo  an  exceedingly  critical  ordeal.  Among 
others  were  to  be  seen  the  aged  and  learned 
Matthai  who  had  accomplished  so  much  as 
director  of  the  Gewandhaus  concerts  and  as 
supporter  of  several  choral  societies;  Au- 
gust Pohling,  the  popular  teacher  of  singing: 

-322  


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


Marschner,  the  young  composer;  Weinlig  the 
choir-master;  Karl  Voigt,  the  'cellist;  Gottfried 
Wilhelm  Fink,  famous  pulpit  orator,  musician 
and  critic,  and  the  highly  gifted  Councillor 
Kochlitz,  editor  of  the  Leipzig  Musical  Times. 
The  women  who  received  most  attention  were 
the  distinguished  singer  Henriette  Weiss,  nee 
Schicht,  and  the  pretty  pianiste  Perthaler,  of 
Graz,  who  was  in  Leipzig  as  her  guest.  Many 
charming  young  girls  flitted  about  like  gay 
moths ;  there  was  a  confusion  of  beautiful  forms, 
a  medley  of  happy  voices,  pleasant  laughter  and 
whispering,  which  reminded  one  of  a  spring 
day  with  its  bright  sky,  golden  sunshine,  rust- 
ling leaves  and  twittering  birds. 

The  friendly  hostess,  a  delicate  blonde,  was 
doing  the  honours  with  accomplished  grace,  yet 
even  while  she  was  occupied  with  words  of 
greeting,  questions,  and  replies,  her  soft  blue 
eyes  were  often  turned  toward  the  door  with  a 
look  of  eager  expectancy. 

**  Something  unusual  is  afoot,  if  one  could 
only  tell  what,"  murmured  one  of  the  students. 
*'Come,  Schumann,  aren't  you  really  in  the 
secret  ? ' ' 

The  one  addressed,  who  had  seated  himself 
before  the  open  piano,  shook  his  head. 

**Go  and  ask,  then,"  exhorted  another.     *'I 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


am  beginning  to  feel  positively  queer.  I  have 
lost  all  inclination  to  play." 

^'Well,  any  of  you  would  be  better  at  finding 
out  than  I.  You  have  all  laughed  at  me  often 
enough  for  my  clumsiness  in  such  matters. ' '  So 
answered  Robert  Schumann,  and  laid  his  hands 
dreamily  upon  the  keys. 

''Yes,  but  you  can  make  the  music  say  what- 
ever you  want/'  broke  in  young  Taglichsbeck, 
''and  everyone  knows  what  you  mean.  Only 
the  other  day  you  caricatured  us  all  on  the 
piano,  and  so  well  that  each  recognized  himself 
instantly.  Then  you  played  Professor  K.  to 
the  very  life,  with  his  walk  and  all,  and  finally 
you  played  Professor  H.  so  comically  that  we 
nearly  laughed  ourselves  to  death.  Go  on,  then, 
and  ask  Frau  Agnes  what's  coming.  Surely 
that's  no  very  distasteful  task?" 

At  that  very  moment  the  youthful  hostess 
came  toward  the  group  of  young  people.  They 
all  admired  her  enthusiastically.  In  her  hospi- 
table house  there  gathered  every  week  a  little 
circle  of  musical  friends  who  listened  to  the 
students'  quartettes  and  trios  with  the  keenest 
enjoyment.  Julius  Knorr  or  Robert  Schumann 
would  take  the  piano  part,  Taglichsbeck  the 
violin,  and  Glock  the  'cello,  while  Sorgel  would 
assume  the  bass  viol.     Then  they  would  set  to 

-324 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


work  merrily.  Severe  criticisms  were  not  lack- 
ing, but  delivered  as  they  were  by  bright  eyes 
and  smiling  lips,  they  merely  stimulated  the 
players  to  greater  efforts  and  made  them  stricter 
in  self-criticism.  Schumann  saw  the  doctor's 
wife  more  often  than  the  rest,  for  he  accompanied 
her  whenever  she  sang.  She  had  made  the  ac- 
quaintance of  the  young  dreamer  before  her 
marriage,  while  visiting  in  his  native  town  of 
Zwickau,  and  her  voice  had  first  inspired  him 
to  compose  songs.  At  the  present  time  she  was 
studying  with  him  chiefly  the  songs  of  Schu- 
bert, which  he  first  brought  to  her  in  great 
delight  and  which  were  just  beginning  to  win 
general  appreciation.  It  was  in  the  Cams  home 
that  Leipzig  first  heard  sung  *'The  Erlking," 
*'At  Sea,"  and  the  famous  ** Serenade."  To- 
day Frau  Agnes  especially  wished  to  sing 
Schubert  songs,  in  memory  of  the  gifted  master, 
who  had  entered  into  his  eternal  rest  only  a  few 
days  before ;  and  she  had  selected  the  wonderful 
*^A11  Souls'  Day"  and  *'The  Wanderer."  Now, 
as  she  approached  her  youthful  admirers,  Schu- 
mann slowly  raised  his  head  and  looked  at  her. 
His  hands  glided  softly  over  the  keys.  There 
arose  a  hesitating,  dreamy  melody,  and  the 
young  matron,  bending  her  head  over  him,  lis- 
tened intently,  while  her  long  golden   ringlets 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


fell  across  her  cheeks.  Full  of  shy  grace,  yet 
full,  too,  of  a  bold  humour,  with  the  short  air, 
which  now  closed  abruptly  with  an  arpeggio 
chord. 

''What  am  I  expected  to  tell?"  demanded 
Frau  Agnes,  with  a  mischievous  smile.  "That 
was  a  veritable  interrogation  point.  Put  it  into 
words ! ' ' 

' '  Positively,  he  is  a  magician  ! ' '  murmured 
Sorgel.  ''He  has  made  her  understand  him. 
No  one  else  could  have  done  such  a  thing.  He 
almost  makes  one  afraid  of  him." 

"Be  pacified,  you  inquisitive  people,"  con- 
tinued the  amiable  hostess.  "I  have  a  surprise 
in  store  for  my  friends  to-night,  and  hope  you 
will  be  duly  grateful  and  enjoy  the  miracle 
which  is  about  to  be  revealed.  Robert  Schu- 
mann is,  as  I  well  know,  a  true  believer  in 
miracles.  To-day  I  think  he  will  bend  his  knee 
in  adoration.     Oh,  there  it  is  now ! ' ' 

With  a  light  step  she  hastened  to  meet  a  little 
white-clad  maiden  who  was  entering  the  room 
in  company  with  a  man.  She  embraced  the 
child  with  motherly  tenderness,  welcomed  the 
father  in  her  own  winning,  friendly  way,  then 
introduced  the  latter  to  her  guests  as  the  music 
teacher  Wieck.  Robert  Schumann  gazed  with 
lively  interest  at  the  man  whose  endowments, 

=rz326  


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


ability  and  energy  he  had  so  often  heard  com- 
mended. How  eager  he  was  to  know  him,  to 
talk  with  him !  But  others  had  drawn  the  new 
guest  into  conversation,  and  the  young  student 
had  to  wait.  Moreover,  his  was  a  retiring 
nature,  and  no  one  could  be  less  at  his  ease  on 
making  a  new  acquaintance  than  was  he.  He 
regarded  a  visit  to  strangers  as  a  kind  of  tor- 
ture, and  it  required  the  finest  tactics  of  diplo- 
macy, and  often  months  of  time,  to  prepare  the 
way  for  introducing  him  into  a  family.  Ever 
since  coming  to  Leipzig,  for  example,  he  had 
longed  to  know  Friedrich  Wieck,  yet  he  had  not 
dared  to  tell  his  friends,  for  fear,  as  he  jokingly 
used  to  say,  that  they  would  ''tie  him  and  crate 
him"  and,  by  force  or  cunning,  drag  him  bodily 
into  the  Master's  house. 

This  evening  he  merely  followed  the  unex- 
pected and  interesting  guest  with  his  dreamy 
eyes  and  did  not  make  the  slightest  attempt 
to  approach  him.  An  unusual  amount  of 
music  was  played.  In  addition  to  a  quartette  in 
E  minor  for  piano  and  stringed  instruments— 
one  of  Eobert  Schumann's  own  compositions 
—he  played  with  his  friend  Knorr  some  bril- 
liant duet  variations  on  a  theme  of  Prince  Louis 
Ferdinand's.  Henriette  Weiss,  who  possessed 
a    Dowerful    voice,    sang    arias    by    Gluck    and 

=327 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


Handel;  the  fair  visiting  pianist  rendered 
Beethoven's  C  minor  Sonata;  and  Frau  Agnes 
sang  Schubert  songs.  The  latter  bewitched  all 
hearts  more  than  ever  before.  Her  voice  was 
exceptionally  winning  and  she  sang  with  in- 
sight and  poetic  feeling.  During  the  storm  of 
delight  which  followed  her  singing,  the  glance 
of  her  accompanist  fell  upon  a  sweet,  childish 
face  immediately  before  him.  Great  blue  eyes 
were  gazing  at  the  face  of  the  singer  with  a  look 
of  the  most  profound  enthusiasm.  Struck  by 
the  child's  naive  admiration,  Robert  Schumann 
involuntarily  laid  his  hand  upon  her  dark  head, 
saying:  ''Are  you  musical,  too,  my  little  one?" 
The  girl  turned  towards  him  slowly,  a  mischiev- 
ous smile  twitching  at  her  mouth.  She  did  not 
answer,  however,  for  at  that  very  moment  her 
father  laid  his  hand  on  her  dainty  shoulder  and 
led  her  away  to  a  distant  group. 

"Well,  how  about  that  promised  miracle? 
Where  is  it?"  asked  Robert  Schumann,  half  an 
hour  later,  with  a  rather  cross  grimace. 

"It  is  going  to  be  revealed  over  there.  You 
had  better  pay  attention,"  replied  the  amiable 
Gotte,  comrade  of  his  studies,  pointing  to  the 
piano. 

A  little,  pale,  dark-haired  girl  was  sitting 
before  the  keyboard,  modestly  but  quite  unem- 

=:328 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


barrassed,  and  beside  her  was  standing  Friedrich 
Wieck.  Suddenly,  with  extraordinary  power 
and  security,  her  graceful  hands  struck  the  first 
notes  of  Beethoven's  Sonata  in  F  minor.  Was 
she  "musical"— little  Clara  Wieck? 

'*What  do  you  think  of  her,  Schumann?" 
demanded  Agnes  Carus  with  flashing  eyes,  when 
the  great  waves  of  applause  which  followed  the 
child's  playing  had  somewhat  subsided.  "Did 
I  prophesy  too  much?  Haven't  I  shown  you  a 
miracle?     Isn't  she  a  little  fairy?'* 

"She  looks  like  the  guardian  angel  in  my 
mother's  room  at  home,"  he  returned  quickly, 
excitedly.  "But  who  taught  her  to  play? 
What  do  the  rest  of  us  amount  to  beside  her? 
And  what  will  she  become  at  this  rate?  I  will 
take  piano  lessons  from  Friedrich  Wieck.  Do 
say  a  good  word  for  me!  Right  now!  Please 
don 't  refuse,  but  let  me  speak  to  him  at  once ! '  * 

And  thus  Robert  Schumann,  the  Leipzig  stu- 
dent, during  the  whole  time  he  was  studying 
law,  became  the  most  industrious  pupil  of  the 
most  famous  music  teacher  in  the  city  of  Leip- 
zig. A  few  days  after  that  memorable  evening, 
little  Clara  made  her  first  public  appearance  at 
a  concert  given  by  the  pianist  Perthaler,  ac- 
companied and  supported  by  the  applause  of 
an  enthusiastic  audience. 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


It  was  almost  four  years  later.  Robert  Schu- 
mann had  returned  to  Leipzig  a  second  time, 
but  his  life  had  taken  a  new  turn  which  was  to 
bring  him  good  fortune.  After  many  strug- 
gles and  doubts  he  had  made  his  decision ;  he 
was  to  be  a  musician.  Wieck's  testimony  en- 
abled him  to  make  this  decision  sooner  than  he 
had  dared  to  hope.  Grateful  and  happy,  he 
now  attached  himself  yet  more  closely  to  this 
first  teacher  of  his,  studying  and  practicing  with 
such  diligence  that  his  friends  were  often  wor- 
ried about  his  health.  In  the  first  place,  he  set 
himself  to  acquire  a  certain  degree  of  digital 
dexterity,  and,  disappointed  at  the  results  of 
his  industry,  he  at  last  laid  out  for  himself  in 
secret  a  daring  course  of  finger  gymnastics,  in 
order  to  get  the  desired  suppleness.* 

It  was  said  that  he  even  devised  strange  in- 
struments of  torture  into  which  he  screwed  his 
hands,  behind  closed  doors.  But  instead  of 
attaining  the  goal  he  longed  for,  the  young 
musician  came  to  realize,  to  his  dismay,  that  a 
crippling  weakness  was  stealing  over  his  right 
hand,  and  particularly  that  the  middle  finger  of 
that  hand  was  becoming  totally  useless.  Prac- 
ticing had  now  to  be  suspended.     The  physician 

*  See  Joseph  Wasielewsky  *s  Biography  of  Robert 
Schumann. 

r=^330 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


forbade  all  exertion  of  the  affected  hand.  What 
misery !  A  prima  donna  told  that  she  was  going 
to  lose  her  dearest  jewel,  her  voice,  could  not 
have  been  more  depressed  and  worried.  To 
long  to  play  the  marvellous  Chopin,  whose  com- 
positions were  just  then  rising  into  view,  like 
bright  stars  against  the  dark  night  sky— and 
to  have  crippled  hands! 

One  warm  summer  evening  it  happened  that 
Robert  Schumann,  crossing  the  Leipzig  market- 
place with  a  roll  of  music  under  his  arm,  was 
going  at  such  a  pace  that  he  fairly  ran  past  his 
teacher  Friedrich  Wieck  without  seeing  him. 

''Whither  away  so  fast?"  cried  AVieck,  dart- 
ing out  his  long  arm  like  a  toll-bar. 

Schumann  stopped. 

*'I  beg  pardon,"  he  said.  *'I  have  just  been 
to  Brietkopf  &  Hartel's  to  get  Chopin's  latest 
work.  Here  it  is— a  Muzurka,  Opus  17;  a 
Waltz,  Opus  18,  and  a  Polonaise.  I  have  read 
them  all  and  could  weep  with  despair,  or  jump 
into  the  river." 

''Why?" 

"Because  I  didn't  write  them— and  because 
I  can't  play  them." 

"Borrow  a  pair  of  hands,  then,  or  let  some- 
body else  play  the  things.  Let  me  have  the 
music  and  come  and  spend  an  hour  with  us  this 

— aai 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


evening.     Perhaps  Clara  will  try  a  bit  of  it." 

With  a  sigh  the  young  musician  placed  the 
music  in  Wieck's  hands. 

*'I'll  be  very  glad  to  come,"  he  said  in  a  low 
voice,  ''but  what  can  Clara's  little  fingers  make 
of  this  wild  music?  Why,  I  can't  grasp  it  at 
all.  I  feel  as  if  I  had  lost  my  way  in  the  woods 
at  night,  with  wills-o '-the-wisp  dancing  about 
me.  And  she  is  only  a  delicate,  timid  little  girl. 
Well,  I'll  be  with  you  at  seven,  sharp." 

''Good!  Clara  won't  be  frightened,  I  hope. 
Bring  Schunke  and  Ortlepp  with  you." 

The  two  men  separated  and  went  their  ways, 
Friedrich  Wieck  turning  the  pages  of  the  music, 
Schumann  with  his  head  down,  lost  in  deep 
thought.  Indeed,  so  absorbed  was  Schumann 
that  when  he  aroused  himself  at  last,  he  found 
himself  not  at  his  rooms  in  Riedel's  Garden,  but 
at  the  opposite  end  of  the  city,  under  the  green 
trees  of  the  Swan  Pond. 

What  was  it  that  had  so  held  captive  his 
senses  and  his  thoughts?  Melodic  reveries, 
mirages  of  future  creative  work;  or  the  Chopin 
demon  whose  strange,  fantastic  airs  pursued  him 
day  and  night ;  or,  perhaps,  a  finely  modelled  lit- 
tle head,  surrounded  by  a  wreath  of  dark  braids, 
which  was  always  reminding  him  of  the  picture 
of  the  guardian  angel  at  home?     Who  knows? 

=332 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


How  different  and  how  much  richer  had  Schu- 
mann's life  become  since  his  first  sojourn  in 
Leipzig  a&  a  young  student?  He  had  become 
one  of  a  fraternity  of  gifted  men  which  had 
formed  itself  out  of  a  common  devotion  to  a 
common  goal.  Names  like  Kupsch,  Dorn,  Banck, 
Bennet,  Schunke,  adorned  it.  Genius  and  tal- 
ent enough  to  supply  half  the  world  were  often 
gathered  together  in  the  little  music  room  in 
Riedel's  Garden.  Yet  on  such  occasions  Robert 
Schumann  always  took  the  least  conspicuous 
part.  By  nature  serious  and  reserved,  he  was 
usually  silent  and  never  sought  an  opportunity 
to  display  his  powers,  though  he  was  always  the 
victor  when  forced  into  competition  with  others. 
All  his  friends  bowed  to  his  discriminating  judg- 
ment, while  his  warm  heart,  his  enthusiastic 
encouragement,  the  depths  of  his  kindly  feeling, 
and  his  noble  candour,  soothed  even  those  who 
felt  hurt  by  his  searching  criticisms.  In  those 
days  too,  this  keen  critic,  this  serious  thinker, 
was  an  enthusiastic  admirer  of  Jean  Paul,  and, 
as  nis  friends  relate  and  his  letters  prove,  he 
was  trying  to  imitate  his  favourite's  style  with 
tongue  and  pen.  How  often  he  would  sit  until 
the  small  hours  over  his  dear  *' Titan"  or 
*' Hesperus,"  and  would  wake  his  room-mate  in 
order  to  read  to  him  excitedly  in  his  pathetic 

=^833 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


voice  some  favourite  passage  from  one  of  these 
books!  He  was  also  carried  away  with  Eichen- 
dorff,  many  a  stanza  from  whose  poems,  which 
afterwards  travelled  the  whole  earth  on  the 
wings  of  a  Schumann  melody,  was  recited  en- 
thusiastically to  some  friend  in  this  quiet  room 
at  midnight.  His  appreciation  for  poetic 
beauty,  both  as  to  form  and  expression,  was 
infinitely  delicate;  the  simplest  verses,  which 
scarcely  affected  others,  would  sometimes  bring 
tears  to  his  eyes.  He  was  profoundly  impressed 
with  that  uncanny  poem:  *'Dusk  is  going  to 
spread  its  wings,"  while  the  fathomless  melan- 
choly of  the  lines  ''From  its  home  behind  the 
lightnings  red,"  like  the  picture  of  "Forest 
Solitude,"  haunted  his  memory  for  days  after 
their  first  reading. 

The  evening  on  which  other  hands  were  to 
play  Chopin  had  come.  Friedrich  Wieck's 
family  and  their  guests  had  already  assembled 
in  the  cosy  music-room,  when  Robert  Schumann 
arrived  with  his  friends.  The  Wieck  boys  seized 
upon  their  favourite  clamorously.  The  only 
others  present  were  Fink  and  Rochlitz,  and  the 
amiable  Henriette  Vogt,  wife  of  an  art-loving 
merchant,  at  whose  home  Schumann  had,  for 
the  first  time,  been  a  guest  a  few  days  before. 
Warm   greetings  were   interchanged,   and   soon 

^334  .  ^. 


MUSICAL  SKETCEES 


a  lively  discussion  was  in  full  swing,  on  a  sub- 
ject which  is  still  discussed  to  this  very  day, 
and  always  with  the  same  zest— the  merits  of 
Chopin. 

The  young  musicians,  without  exception,  felt 
powerfully  drawn  by  that  refined,  strange 
temperament,  the  shadowy  wealth  of  whose 
harmonies  enmeshed  every  soul  as  in  a  magic 
net.  But  even  the  much  admired  pianist 
Schunke  admitted  that  he  felt  a  kind  of  dread 
on  taking  up  the  study  of  Chopin.  ^'Mozart 
and  Beethoven,  Haydn  and  Bach,  lead  us  over 
beaten  paths,"  he  once  remarked.  *'One 
wanders  in  their  music  through  palm  groves 
and  magic  gardens.  But  whither  will  this  Pole 
lead  us,  with  his  slim,  pale  hand  ?  Into  an  end- 
less forest  of  moonlight,  where  we  are  always 
ill  at  ease,  where  mysterious  voices 

'Soar  up  and  down* 

and  all  sorts  of  ghost-like  apparitions  catch  the 
eye.'' 

During  all  this  conversation  the  delicate  fig- 
ure of  a  girl  verging  upon  womanhood  kept 
moving  silently  and  softly  about  among  the 
guests.  A  superficial  observer  might  easily 
have  overlooked  that  pale  face,  that  shy  figure. 
Her  whole  appearance  suggested  a  sensitiveness 

=^335 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


toward  the  outer  world  like  that  of  the  Mimosa 
plant,  which  shrinks  into  itself  at  the  slightest 
rough  touch.  The  soil  of  the  common  world 
seemed  unfit  for  a  nature  so  fragile  as  this 
"white  flower,"  and  yet  the  child  was  already 
attracting  considerable  public  attention. 

All  Leipzig  was  talking  of  Clara's  wonderful 
talent  and  its  vigorous  development  under  her 
father's  energetic  guidance;  her  industry  and 
zeal  were  constantly  praised.  Yet  few  eyes  be- 
held her  in  her  own  home,  where  she  was,  above 
all,  the  most  affectionate  of  sisters,  the  most 
obedient  of  daughters.  She  acted  with  the  most 
charming  modesty  in  the  presence  of  the  artists 
and  the  friends  of  her  father  who  visited  at  the 
house.  For  the  most  part  she  would  sit  beside 
her  mother,  silent  and  attentive  among  the  older 
and  younger  musicians,  with  glowing  cheeks 
and  sparkling  eyes,  while  now  and  then  a  lovely 
smile  parted  her  lips,  saying  more  eloquently 
than  words: 

''I  love  to  listen  when  the  wise  are  speaking. 
That  I  may  learn  to  understand  their  wisdom." 

To-day  she  was  listening  more  closely  than 
ever,  as  the  speakers  waxed  warm  in  debate  and 
argued  and  questioned  on  all  phases  of  the  sub- 
ject.     "Oh,     my     useless     hand!"     exclaimed 

r=:336 


|H| 

1^1 

^^^^^^^p^i^^H 

^^^^H 

^^^^^Hj^vT'         j^K\-'<;^W 

^^^H 

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^B 

^^K     '';'  j^^^mii 

HHHI 

H&    ;-      ^'^9 

l^^^^^B^- '    '"< ''  i^'*  ^n^  flVR 

1^ 

^^1  '                 1 

^ 

H^^\  ^ 

''^^^fc 

'  1 

■l 

jL  j 

^  f^  I^^^^^^^^H 

^1 

^^^ 

"T^»^M\''^ '•jiffs, , 

SCHUMANN 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


Robert  Schumann  despondently.  ^'If  only  I 
could  play  this  polonaise  to-day!  Who  will 
lend  me  his  sound  fingers?  I  would  thank  him 
the  rest  of  my  life. ' ' 

Then  a  sweet  voice  said,  quite  loudly  and 
clearly:  "I." 

Clara  rose  and  went  over  to  her  father,  laid 
her  hand  lightly  on  his  shoulder,  and  asked, 
with  a  blush:  "Papa,  will  you  let  me  play  it? 
I  believe  I  can.     And  the  little  muzurkas,  too.'* 

''You  must  take  the  responsibility,  then," 
replied  Wieck,  "for  I  was  out  when  you  were 
practicing.  Try,  my  child,  if  you  think  you 
can  venture,  and  if  Schumann  is  content  with 
your  ten  fingers." 

She  glanced  at  Schumann,  who  nodded.  A 
smile  flitted  across  her  face.  And  presently 
Clara  was  seated  before  her  beloved  piano  and 
was  playing  Chopin. 

Passively,  all  the  company  stepped  within  the 
magic  circle  woven  by  this  music,  by  this  play- 
ing, and  followed  as  in  a  dream  the  elfin  figure, 
which  whisked  away  before  their  Qye;&  into  the 
enchanted  forest.  Labyrinthian  paths  lay  be- 
fore them  under  the  moonbeams,  leading— 
where?  On  and  on,  past  dancing,  flashing 
wills-o'-the-wisp,  to  the  castle  beside  the  deep 
lake,  whose  lighted  windows  were  reflected   in 

=387 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


the  placid  waters.  A  garden  filled  with  roses 
and  exotics  surrounded  it.  On  the  broad  ter- 
races stood  orange  trees  heavy  with  bloom,  their 
perfume  wafted  softly  on  the  eddies  of  the  air. 
Women,  marvellously  fair,  in  magnificent  at- 
tire, their  dark  tresses  plaited  with  pearls,  or 
wearing  sparkling  jeweled  crowns  on  their  fore- 
heads, paced  slowly  to  and  fro  in  the  uncer- 
tain moonlight;  at  their  sides  proud,  manly 
figures,  clad  strangely  and  superbly.  On  all 
sides  low  whispers,  warm  sighs,  passionate 
glances,  the  tremulous  pressure  of  clasped 
hands.  Within  the  castle,  in  a  great  hall,  there 
was  dancing— wild  dances  whose  melodies 
quickened  the  pulsing  blood,  while  spur  rang 
against  spur.  Yet,  fascinating  as  were  those 
forms,  entrancing  as  were  those  intricate  figures 
and  groups,  there  was  something  dreadful  in 
their  pleasure,  something  demoniacal  in  their 
wild  joy.  Under  it  all  there  sounded  the  clash 
of  swords,  shrieks  of  despairing  love,  noises  like 
*^  revelry  about  a  corpse  and  dirges  at  a  mar- 
riage feast."  Wildly  and  more  wildly  surged 
the  men  and  women  in  the  dance,  more  heated 
became  their  embraces,  more  hotly  flamed  their 
glances;  those  who  had  been  strolling  in  the 
garden  now  came  to  stand  at  the  doors,  staring, 
pale  and  sorrowful,  at  the  reeling  revelry  with- 


MUSICAL  SKETCEE8 


in.  Then  suddenly  the  candles  were  snuffed 
out,  the  music  ceased  in  a  shrill  wail  of  anguish, 
and  all  was  blank.  The  moonlight  flooded 
deserted  rooms,  the  dancers  had  vanished.  Only 
in  the  garden  shadowy  forms  skimmed  away 
mysteriously,  shivery  ripples  moved  upon  the 
lake,  and  the  rustling  of  the  reeds  died  away 
like  gentle  sighs. 

*'That  was  Chopin,'*  said  Friedrich  Wieck, 
quietly,  as  the  frail  form  of  the  girl  rose  from 
the  piano.  But  her  childish  face  had  turned 
pale,  a  new  seriousness  had  touched  her  brow, 
and  her  eyes  were  glistening  with  moisture.  No 
one  spoke,  so  seized  and  overpowered  were  they 
all  by  Clara's  playing.  The  mother  held  out 
her  hand  involuntarily  and  drew  her  daughter 
to  her.  As  she  passed  Schumann  the  girl's 
eyes  met  his  gazing  up  at  her  in  almost  prayer- 
ful admiration.  She  paused  for  a  moment  and 
a  bright  blush  dyed  her  clear  cheeks.  And  this 
iQterchange  of  glances  was  the  first  link  of  that 
firm  golden  chain  which  was  to  bind  them  to 
each  other  for  time  and  eternity.  From  that 
hour  Robert  Schumann's  heart  never  forgot  the 
young  girl  who,  as  he  lightly  expressed  it,  had 
**lent"  him  her  hands. 

There  was  a  great  deal  more  discussion  and 
music   that   evening,   but   Clara  did  not   play 

-389 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


again.  She  kept  her  seat  among  her  brothers 
and  sisters,  asked  to  see  the  young  musician's 
lame  finger,  carefully  and  skilfully  tightened 
the  bandage,  and  gave  "the  patient"  all  sorts 
of  wise  feminine  advice,  smiling  and  making 
merry  meantime;  while  Schumann  gazed  down 
thoughtfully  on  this  little  sister  of  charity,  with 
her  captivating  profile  and  her  abundant  dark 
hair,  and  was  once  more  reminded  of  the  guard- 
ian angel  in  his  mother's  little  room  at  home. 
Later,  after  the  frugal  supper,  the  boys 
guardedly  begged  their  friend  to  tell  them  a 
"long  story"  and  gradually  drew  him  into  a 
window  corner,  while  the  others  conversed.  It 
was  there  that  he  was  in  the  habit  of  telling 
them,  as  he  later  told  in  melody,  those  real, 
precious  fairy  tales  which  begin  with  the  mag- 
ical words  "Once  upon  a  time,"  and  end  with 
the  comforting  assurance  that  "if  they  haven't 
died,  they're  living  still."  But  this  time,  just 
as  he  was  beginning,  a  very  dear  little  somebody 
rose  and  crept  nearer,  unnoticed.  Resting  her 
hand  on  the  back  of  the  narrator's  chair, 
without  his  knowing  it,  she  forgot  learned  dis- 
cussions about  the  system  of  Logier,  the  **  sus- 
pensions" of  Chopin,  and  the  fugues  of  Bach, 
and  listened  with  soul  and  eyes  to  the  story  of 


:340n: 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


how  the  *' Seven  Ravens"  turned  themselves 
back  into  seven  knights  in  order  to  save  their 
devoted  little  sister. 


Many  years  had  passed  since  Robert  Schu- 
mann first  heard  Clara  Wieck  play  Chopin— 
and  what  changes  had  intervened !  The  dreamer 
who  had  dissipated  his  powers  in  many  interests 
was  now  a  musician  at  whom  crowds  stared 
spell-bound  and  who  was  surrounded  by  a 
throng  of  enthusiastic  adherents.  A  number  of 
superb  published  compositions  bore  witness  to 
the  lofty  flight  of  their  author's  genius,  to  his 
wealth  of  imagination,  to  the  true  Teutonic 
depth  and  fervour  of  his  temperament.  After 
a  life  crowded  with  events,  after  sojourns  in 
Leipzig,  Dresden  and  St.  Petersburg,  he  had 
come  to  Diisseldorf;  and  not  alone,  for  the 
guardian  angel,  now  a  real,  living  person,  was 
with  him.  The  budding  child  was  now  a  wife 
and  the  mother  of  blooming  children.  The 
union  of  Robert  Schumann  with  his  Clara  had 
cost  hard  battles,  fierce,  persistent  struggles. 
Many  an  anxious  year  had  sped  before  the 
glorious  bridal  song  **Over  the  garden,  through 


=341: 


MV81CAL  8KETCBSS 


the  air, ' '  could  be  sung,  with  its  joyous  refrain : 

*'She  is  thine,  yes,  she  is  thine!*' 

and  its  tender  lines:  * 

**ror  I  have  kissed  her  there  so  long 
I've  made  her  mine  in  life  and  song." 

But  to  be  side  by  side  at  last  seemed  to  them 
only  the  more  blessed  after  that  long  waiting. 
The  time  of  separation  lay  behind  them  like  a 
troubled  dream,  for  now  they  belonged  to  each 
other  forever. 

Robert  Schumann  was  conducting  his  *' Pil- 
grimage of  the  Rose*'  in  the  Diisseldorf  Con- 
cert Hall.  The  dense  audience  listened  to  the 
graceful  stanzas,  the  charming  melodies,  with 
the  most  rapt  attention.  Young,  girlish  faces, 
fresh  as  roses,  lent  their  beauty  to  the  tiers  of 
the  chorus.  Among  the  sopranos  was  Clara 
Schumann.  During  that  whole  evening  I  think 
I  scarcely  once  took  my  eyes  from  her.  She 
joined  in  the  singing,  gazing  always  at  her 
husband.  What  a  look  hers  was !  It  expressed 
true,  sweet  womanly  devotion  and  endless  love. 
She  followed  his  every  movement ;  she  kept  time 
softly  to  herself;  she  watched  for  the  alto  and 
joined  in  with  that  part;  she  barkened  for  the 
tenor;  she  marked  the  entrance  of  the  basses; 

■■>  —348 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


she  listened  attentively  to  the  orchestra;  while 
again  and  again  her  deep,  affectionate  eyes 
turned  back  to  him  with  that  look  which  no  one 
who  saw  it  could  ever  forget.  The  conductor's 
face  remained  impassive,  and  only  now  and 
then,  at  some  favourite  passage,  his  eyelids 
lifted  slowly  and  his  eyes  met  the  eyes  of  his 
wife. 

Later,  when  all  was  over,  I  saw  him  sitting 
exhausted  in  his  easy  chair,  and  there  she  was 
standing,  just  as  she  had  stood  once  many  years 
before  when  he  was  telling  fairy  stories,  her 
slender  hand  resting  on  the  chair-back.  Then 
she  nodded  with  charming  motherly  sweetness 
to  her  youngest  little  daughter,  who  was  sitting 
near  the  orchestra. 

In  the  second  part  of  the  performance  she 
played  compositions  of  her  husband's.  Among 
these,  the  bewitching  duet  ''At  the  Spring," 
which  she  played  with  one  of  her  young  girl 
pupils,  Nanette  Falk,  was  received  with  keen  de- 
light. Afterwards  she  played  some  of  Mendel- 
sohn's Songs  Without  Words  and  a  Chopin 
mazurka. 

Robert  Schumann  sat  in  a  corner,  in  his  char- 
acteristic pose,  his  chin  resting  on  his  hand  and 
his  lips  smilingly  pouted,  as  always  when  he 
was,  as  now,  pleased  and  satisfied  with  her.     In 

—343  


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


the  midst  of  the  applause  she  turned  her  head 
sideways,  seeking  his  eyes,  and  he  nodded  gently, 
with  a  sign  of  approbation.  Her  face  showed 
clearly  that  she  did  not  find  her  best  reward  in 
the  applause  of  the  public. 

There  was  something  profoundly  affecting  in 
the  quiet  way  in  which  she  took  care  of  him, 
sympathizing  with  him  mentally  and  physically, 
before  all  eyes ;  but  her  many  friends  know  how 
infinitely  more  moving  still  was  the  life  she 
lived  with  and  for  him  in  her  own  home.  Just 
as  she  had  lent  him  her  hands,  half  playfully, 
on  that  memorable  Chopin  evening,  so  she  had 
later  been  the  means  of  securing  a  reception  for 
his  own  brilliant  pianoforte  compositions.  As 
far  as  her  strength  permitted  she  had  set  her- 
self to  remove  every  obstacle  in  his  sometimes 
rather  rough  road  toward  an  artistic  career; 
she  was  always  patiently  trying  to  pluck  the 
thorns  from  every  rose  which  blossomed  along 
his  way. 

Though  she  was  unaware  of  it,  her  own  ex- 
istence made  up  the  elements  of  Schumann's 
most  glorious  song  cycle,  ''The  Life  and  Love 
of  Woman,"  from  the  bewitching 

** Since  mine  eyes  beheld  him" 

to  the  affecting 

-344— 


MUSICAL  SKETCHES 


*  *  Now  for  the  first  time  thou  hast  bruised  my  heart. ' ' 

A  complete  and  exhaustive  biography  of 
Kobert  and  Clara  Schumann  can  only  be  writ- 
ten by  and  by,  but  whatever  may  be  told  here- 
after about  the  husband  ^s  fame  and  artistic 
creations,  the  chapters  that  tell  of  the  wife's 
wonderfully  harmonious  life  with  him  must 
sometime  assuredly  be  prefaced  by  this  motto, 
the  secret  of  that  rare  and  perfect  artistic 
union : 

**I  will  live  for  him  and  serve  him, 
Be  his  in  every  wise — 
Give  him  my  soul,  and  find  it 
Transfigured  in  his  eyes/' 


THE   END. 


r345= 


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